


Atonement

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:31:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected truth both surprises and changes an ill-tempered Ethan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> The main note?
> 
> *** This is based around the final scene in Seattle never having taken place... ***
> 
> AU? Not really. The only difference is the whole 'Croatia' thing hasn't been raised yet.
> 
> Narrated by Ethan. Self beta'd.
> 
> Again, I suck at summaries and apologise for this.
> 
> And, again, thank you to everyone who has left kudos. They mean a lot and definitely encourage me to try to come up with new fics to write.

=========  
Atonement  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

I keep it together until we're back inside the dingy hovel currently masquerading as our base.

Then, as I dump my gear on the rickety table in the middle of the room and realise that I'm effectively stuck here until it's time to leave for the airport, my final button is effortlessly pushed into an on position and, without bothering to count from one to ten or wasting time on taking a calming breath, I just lose it. 

“Just what the fuck was all that about, huh?” I shout, giving the nearby chair a vicious kick as I whirl around and, for no other reason than my gaze falls on her first, glaring at Jane. “Rookies! The lot of you! I felt as though I was unlucky enough to be babysitting a pack of fucking rookies! You... All of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

I'm not being fair, as most of went wrong can't be blamed on the team at all, but realising this and – shutting the fuck up or locking myself away in another room before my bad mood makes me go one step too far – actually getting off my high horse are two entirely different things. Not being a huge fan of either heat or humidity, both of which are in abundance here in Bangkok, I've been teetering on the edge ever since we arrived two days ago and the mission, regardless of it having an ultimately successful conclusion, having gone so spectacularly haywire has just pushed me into an ill tempered free fall.

It was meant to be easy. Little more than a glorified snatch and grab. Take control of the security system, break in, retrieve the file, get out and retreat - mission accomplished. An untold amount of accidents and erratic-at-best tuk-tuks were never meant to run unintentional interference on the roads, a blink and you'd have missed it electrical storm was never meant to take out the security system and the firm's backup system was certainly never meant to take the form of a dozen or so heavily armed guards. Granted, we'd faced worse, yet while none of the unexpected problems were insurmountable they were still enough to throw us all off our A game. 

Not having a computer network to control, coupled with the amount of guards roaming around meant Benji had to be in the thick of the action. This in turn meant that courtesy of all his carefully laid plans instantly turning to dust, his anxiety levels sky rocketed and the rest of us then had to listen to his nervous, seeking reassurance babble through our comms for the duration of the mission. Now, Benji's a good agent who I trust with my life, but when he's nervous he can't help but share his nervousness with everyone around him and Jane in particular picks up on this to the point of splitting her attention between the task at hand and constantly monitoring Benji to ensure that he's okay. Usually Will gets in on the act as well but today Benji's endless chatter in his ear was the least of his problems and if I wasn't in such a foul mood I'd be thanking God that the bullet only grazed his upper arm instead of actually lodging in him.

The bullet that, to be perfectly blunt, should never have got anywhere near him in the first place because he should have been more aware of his surroundings instead of being off with the fucking fairies and wandering around as though he had no idea where he was. I understand that, having succumbed to the same virus I swear half the Goddamn passengers on the flight into Bangkok were suffering from, he's sick and subsequently not thinking at his best. Not being a complete bastard, I get that, I really do. What I also get however, what I'm having difficulties seeing past at the moment, is the small fact of life that he should have opened his fucking mouth and said something about not feeling well enough to adequately play his part. We could have completed the mission with just the three of us. Hell, given that we all wouldn't have had to freeze and hold our collective breaths when he strayed out into the open and very nearly got felled by a bullet, it just would have been preferable for all concerned. 

But no. He had to soldier on. Pop a few paracetamol, concentrate on plastering on a suitably 'with it' expression, and present for duty. Jane suggested that he sit this one out. Benji looked anxious and chewed on his bottom lip. And I, the all fucking important Team Leader, didn't so much as acknowledge his pale skin and slightly glazed blue eyes because, hey, I just didn't want to see it. The plan at that point was still set in concrete and, come hell or high water – or in this case, virus or fever – we were going with it. If he had spoken up I probably would have turned a deaf ear to it anyway but right now that's beside the point. He didn't. So ergo, given the mood I'm in, he's more than entitled to receive his fair share of – my ire – blame.

Jane, who it just has to be said looks supremely unbothered by my temper tantrum – and, yes, this in itself is like the proverbial red rag to a bull – coolly returns my gaze and shrugs. “Excuse me?” she murmurs with deceptive politeness as she strips off her tactical vest and drops it on the floor. “I'm sorry that my request to be able to control the fucking weather was denied,” she continues, narrowing her eyes and glaring across the room at me. “Oh. And the traffic? Next time you want to go somewhere just give me some warning and I'll ensure a red carpet has been laid out along the route and a police escort is standing by. Just...” Shrugging again, she lifts the bottom of her black tank top and rubs the sweat from her forehead with it. “Fuck you, Ethan. Yeah. Things didn't go completely to plan. But what of it? We got the file and we got out. Perhaps instead of...”

“Uh... Jane,” Benji interrupts timidly from his position by the door where – being too focussed on trying to melt Jane with my gaze I'd forgotten all about him – he's standing, keeping Will upright by holding him around the waist. While I may not be able to acknowledge it like any sort of normal person, even I can see that Will, with the both hurriedly and crudely tied bandage around his upper arm already soaked through with blood and sweat quite literally dripping from him as he sways unsteadily on his feet, looks even worse than he did when we left here a couple of hours ago. “Maybe the argument can wait, yeah? We need to get Will...”

“Will!” I exclaim, spinning around and pointing an accusing finger at him. Yes. I see that he's sick and that I'm behaving like an asshole. What I also see, what I never want to see again, is that dreadful, heart stopping second when I honestly thought the bullet was going to hit him square in the chest. I see the near miss and I react to the – unthinkable – thought of having nearly lost him by reinforcing my defences and, in a move born solely out of self protection, going on the attack. “What on earth were you, Mr Plague Carrier, doing out on the mission in the first place, huh? You should have been in fucking quarantine, not staggering around like you were running interference!”

His eyes widening, Will pales even further and opens his mouth as though he's going to say something. He then shuts it without having said a word and, his gaze sliding to the floor, slumps heavily against Benji.

“Okay. That's enough,” Jane announces, shooting me a warning look that I know I'd do well to heed as she nods at Benji and gestures towards the closed door that opens into the tiny room Will has been using to sleep in. “Ethan, pull your fucking head in for a minute and, here's a novel idea, actually think before you speak next time. Benji, take Will and make sure his wound is clean before helping him into bed. If you need any help, I'll be just here.”

“I...” Nodding, Benji hides his relief at having effectively been handed a Get Out Of The Way Of The Ranting Asshole Free card by refusing to glance at me as he helps Will, who looks close to being a dead weight by this stage, into the room.

“You know,” Jane murmurs with deceptive calm as she sidles up and positions herself directly in front of me, “I generally think of you as a friend but, seriously, there are times when you're a complete piece of work.”

“If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it,” I retort with a truly stunning lack of originality. “As team leader it's my...”

“And if Will deserved to be torn a new one I would have let you,” Jane states, cutting me off and, no doubt to reiterate her point, jabbing me in the chest with her finger. “He didn't deserve it though and if you weren't in such a bitchy mood you'd realise it yourself. He's sick, he's got a badly grazed arm and the last thing he needs is to have you shouting complete bullshit at him. He deserves better, Ethan, and you know it.”

Shrugging, I sink down in the chair and, in an obviously dismissive move, pull my laptop towards me and power it up. “And a team... deserves... to know they can fully rely on all its members,” I mutter, busying myself with entering my password and accessing a blank mission report. “He was a liability.”

“And you're an asshole.”

Her piece so succinctly said, Jane gives me a disappointed look and disappears into the bathroom.

Alone in the main room of what is most likely the rattiest safe-house-slash-base in IMFs long list of property holdings, I lean back in the chair and gaze up without any particular care or interest at the damp patch slowly appearing on the ceiling over what passes as the kitchenette. The weather in Bangkok – not being fit for any living thing as far as I'm concerned – throwing everything at us today, it's currently pouring with monsoonal-like rain and the sound of it hitting the tin roof is loud enough to let me know its not showing any signs of letting up. Small leaks litter the ceiling before my eyes and water drips steadily down on to the dirty wooden floor. I'd get up and try to find bowls to catch the water only there's no point. Apart from a few laptops, phones and iPads lying around currently out of harms way, there's nothing of value in danger of getting wet as the cache of weapons are securely hidden in a steel safe within the wall and, really, they're the only thing in the dump that are worth protecting.

An ex meth lab that's seen better decades, the base is made up of five rooms, the main one I'm in which includes the kitchenette, three – for the want of a better description given that all they really consist of are a couple of mattresses on the floor – bedrooms, and a bathroom which brings all too readily to mind the men's toilets in the busiest and dingiest of gas stations on the dustiest and busiest of truck routes. It's also hidden inside a cavernous abandoned warehouse that's made solely out of tin and which traps the heat and humidity inside like an oven. IMF, suitably placated by its hard-to-find coupled with safe-and-secure qualities, haven't bothered to waste any money on making it, well, tolerable let alone liveable and being in it is like some form of punishment, something you're not even entirely sure you'd wish on your worst enemy. Sure, there's the usual tech toys, seemingly never ending array of weapons and communication capabilities that could probably allow us to dial up the space station – but they're lovingly hidden away in the climate controlled safe while we have to put up with tired old ceiling fans that struggle to so much as move the air and a level of discomfort akin to the rankest of prisons.

It serves its purpose, but that's all it serves. Part of me wants to suggest to the Secretary that we use it as one of our more inhumane methods of torture. Lock the suspect up inside, tell them that they weren't going to get out until they told us everything they knew, and... just sit back and wait to see how long it took for them to crack. No windows, no sunlight, oppressive, relentless heat, no air flow, taps that only brown water comes out of and now, just for the fucking cherry on top of everything else, it's very own version of Chinese Water Torture in the form of rain dripping through the ceiling.

I doubt even the toughest of suspects could survive an entire week without banging on the door and begging for mercy.

God knows it's what I feel like doing and I'm not even stuck here. Not really, anyway. For the sake of security the plan isn't to leave here until it's time to go to the airport, but at least I know in the back of my mind that if things get too bad I can always bolt outside and look up at the stars. It's only a small thing, and I don't actually have any intention of doing it, but... It's still better than nothing, let's put it that way.

The sound of the bathroom door opening dragging my attention away from the ever-so-fascinating ceiling, I glance across at Jane as she returns to the room and she gazes back at me with the sort of cold expression on her face that tells me I'm still well and truly in the doghouse with her. Common sense tells me that I should apologise, or alternatively offer some mundane small talk to demonstrate that I've pulled my head out of my ass and am actually back to... me... again, but I remain silent as she walks past on her way to the refrigerator in the kitchenette and start typing my report. I'm still wound up enough to know I run the risk of putting my foot in it if I open my mouth and just don't want to risk it. I've already done enough damage as it is.

Pausing on her way back from the kitchenette, Jane drops a cold bottle of water onto the table by the laptop. “Don't think you're forgiven or that I'm feeling any more fondly towards you,” she comments, taking a mouthful of water from the bottle in her hand, “but you're crabby enough as it is without adding dehydration into the mix as well, so... Drink. One of the three favourite men in my life giving every impression of dying is all that I can take at the moment.”

Picking up the bottle, I unscrew the lid and take a drink. “I'm sure he'll be fine,” I murmur with a shrug. “It's probably just a combination of some virus and this Godforsaken heat.”

“All I have to say is that he'd better be,” Jane mutters, toasting me with her bottle before walking off in the direction of the room she's been sharing with Benji. In the early, still getting to know each other's boundaries, days of the team I tried to make a point of ensuring that she, as the only woman, always had her own room. If there were only two rooms I'd let her have one to herself even though it meant crowding in with both Will and Benji. It soon became clear though – not to mention perfectly understandable when she let slip how many brothers she'd grown up with – that privacy for any perceived 'female reasons' isn't high on her 'must have' list and that she's more than happy to bunk with Benji if required. Benji, of course, has his own reasons for being blissfully okay with sharing with Jane and somehow it just... works.

“I'm just going to have a lie down,” she adds over shoulder as she opens the door and steps into the room. “Yell if you want anything or if there's a change, good or bad, in Will's condition.”

There being no need to reply, as she pulls the door shut without waiting for a response, I nonetheless nod my acknowledgement to her request before applying myself to the essential-if-not-actually-interesting task of writing up the mission report. There being nothing to be gained from going over everything that went wrong with it, I focus on the positives – that it was a success and we're all still, albeit a little worse for wear, here – and gloss over everything else. It's not the first time I've turned report writing into a creative writing exercise and I doubt it'll be the last. All the Secretary really cares about is the 'success' part of it all anyway. The rest could probably be written in Latin for all he'd care, so long as the all important 'mission accomplished' line was highlighted somewhere for him.

I've just finished proof-reading the report and am about to hit submit when Benji slips silently into the room. Glancing over at him, I'm instantly annoyed at the look of dismay on his face – that I put down to finding me here by myself and no Jane for backup – and scowl. “What?”

“Uh...” Benji gazes longingly at the closed door that's separating him from Jane for a second before squaring his shoulders and meeting my gaze with a sour look of his own. “You wouldn't happen to have a clean flannel, would you?” he queries, raising his arms above his head and stretching.

“A clean flannel?” I repeat, his request both surprising me and leaving no opening to send me off on another rant. “No. I don't think I do. Why do you want one anyway?”

“For Will, of course. He's burning up and...” A drop of water suddenly falling on his head, Benji hurries over to the table and sighs heavily. “Just when I thought this hole couldn't get any worse...”

“Tell me about it,” I reply, quickly submitting my report before shutting down the laptop and returning it to the protection of its metal case. “Now... If you're wanting to put something damp on Will's forehead and we don't have any flannels, just use a T-shirt or tank top. It'll be a lot larger, yeah, but it'll do the same thing.”

His expression brightening, Benji nods. “Good idea. Only... Uh... I think all mine are dirty already. I know! Maybe Jane has...”

“I've got one,” I interrupt as I push my chair back and stand up. “What's more, leave it to me. I'll go and look after Will while you have a rest.” It's probably not the best idea I've had, or even the most reassuring going on the doubtful look on Benji's face, but I've said it now and I'm going to go through with it. Benji, who Jane affectionately refers to as a lily-white, pasty Pom, is looking hot and bothered and it's pretty clear that he needs to take a break. “Don't look so worried,” I continue, flashing him a forced smile. “I'm not going to lecture him or anything like that.”

“Actually... As I don't think he'll hear a word of it, you can lecture him all you like,” Benji retorts, sinking down in the chair and, grabbing my bottle of water, downing what was left in it in one long, obviously much needed, swallow. “Are you sure though? I don't mind...”

“I'm sure,” I state, cutting him off as I head into my bedroom to retrieve a clean tank top. “Just... Have a drink and rest up. I'll watch over Will.”

“Mmm... 'Kay.”

Pleased that Benji's going to do as – he's told – asked, I grab a white cotton tank top from the bag lying open on the floor by the mattress and, before I can second guess my motives, make a determined beeline to Will's room. Reaching the door, I push it open and, with no particular plan in mind, step inside. Clad only in boxers and with a sheet loosely covering him from the waist down, Will lies asleep – although, really, I think deeply unconscious covers it better – on the double mattress on the floor. Looking at him, flushed and covered in sweat, I suddenly understand Benji's comment about him not going to hear anything I feel compelled to say and I can't decide if this is for the best or not. I need to apologise for my behaviour, that much is a given, and I'd certainly prefer to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. On the other hand, however, what with my current innate ability to say the wrong thing without even trying, who knows the damage I could cause if I tried to clear my slate now and it's because of this, this fear of making things worse, that I decide to err on the side of it actually being for the best.

Sighing, I drag my gaze away from the admittedly still rather attractive – and, yes, I accept without hesitation that this isn't a thought I should even be entertaining given the circumstances – sight of Will and walk across the room to the dozen or so bottles of water neatly lined up along the back wall. The brown sludge coming from the taps not being fit for a dog let alone a man, all water for any and all purposes in the base needs to come from out of a bottle and, grabbing one, I unscrew the lid and pour the entire two litres onto the tank top. Once it's drenched through, I wring it out and, stepping around the puddle of my own making, make my way over to the mattress. Crouching down, I fold it into as reasonable a rectangle as I can manage and pat it gently over Will's face and torso. My touch has no discernible effect on him and I can't tell if what I'm doing is of any benefit to him or whether I'm just wasting my time. Biting back a sigh, I stand up and repeat my messy, water wasting trick of drenching the tank top before scooping up a full bottle and returning to the bed. Refolding the top, I carefully place it on Will's forehead and, not quite knowing what else to do with myself, sink down cross legged on the floor next to him.

My instinctual position being one of both action and taking charge, I feel at a complete loss and wish there was more – actually, I'd settle for... anything – that I could do for him. I'm confident that he's only suffering the effects of a virus combined with far too high temperatures and almost suffocating humidity, neither of which he's used to and which will be having a far worse impact on him than the rest of us because his immune system was already weakened by the virus. It's unpleasant for sure, but far from life threatening and I would think he'll be well on the way to recovery once his fever breaks. The wound on his arm from where the bullet grazed him is, and it's a sad comment on the lives we lead that I can even think this, of no great concern. It'll hurt like a bitch for a while, but the fresh white bandage wrapped tightly around his arm tells me that Benji would have attacked it with the contents of the first aid kit and, that pain and yet another scar aside, it's already little more than a part of history.

A part of history that I'd really rather forget, but still history nonetheless.

The rotten wooden floor not exactly being the most comfortable thing I've ever sat on, it doesn't take long for my legs to start feeling numb and I try telling myself that it's for this reason alone that I get up and resettle myself, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me, on the lumpy mattress next to Will. On a roll with disguising – the truth with calculated logic – reality behind... 'it simply being the right thing to do'... I then proceed to tell myself that the only reason I'm lightly placing my hand over Will's wrist is to take his pulse not, good heaven's no, for the positively illogical reason of simply wanting to touch him. Reassured that it, like his breathing, is steady, I hesitate for at least a good three minutes or more too long before removing my hand from his and gingerly making myself as comfortable as I can.

It's hardly the time for it, and I know after my ranting banshee routine in the main room that I don't even deserve the right to so much as think it, but even like this I feel calmer simply for being with Will. I'd never admit it to him, and God alone knows I've never done even the tiniest thing to show it, but just being around him makes things... better... somehow. He's accepting while I'm demanding, calm and organised while I'm twitchy and chaotic, and when we're alone together there are times when I honestly struggle to believe my good fortune in having him in my life.

Again though, not that I ever show it.

Hell, the only reason I can sit here – where I want to be – now is because he doesn't know I'm here.

It's ridiculous. I can show affection, even if it is only wiping the sweat away or furtively touching his wrist, while he's asleep, yet when he's wake I treat him like...

Waking with a start as his breath catches in his throat, Will – kindly puts an instant halt on the thoughts I really didn't want to be thinking anyway – jerks up into a sitting position and coughs wretchedly. Almost relieved by suddenly having something to do, I shift into a kneeling position and rub my hand along back. “Hey... Calm down and concentrate on breathing,” I mutter, using my free hand to grab the bottle of water and, shoving it between my knees, fumble over unscrewing the lid. “Here... Have some water,” I add, waiting until the coughing has subsided before lifting the bottle to his lips and helping him take a drink. “There... That's better.”

“Speak for yourself,” Will mumbles, wiping his hand, which I can't help but notice is trembling slightly, across his mouth before slumping back down on the mattress and closing his eyes.

“You'll live,” I state, the pointless, meaningless even, response slipping out before my self-censorship chip can step in and stop it. “Uh... What I mean...”

“If you knew the truth about...” Will interrupts in a hoarse whisper before trailing off and shuddering. “Actually...” His eyes flying open, he sits up with obvious effort and, with a slightly delirious look in his eyes, clutches desperately at my T-shirt. “Ethan! I can't... I can't go on like this. I... I have to come clean...”

“Hey... Shhh...” Placing my hands over Will's, I try to get him to release his hold on my T-shirt but he only tightens his grip and, shaking his head, stares at – or straight through, it's hard to tell – me through far too bright eyes. “Will? Whatever you want to say, it can wait... You're not well and you need to rest. So... Just let me help you down...”

“Croatia!” he exclaims, abruptly letting go of my top and shuffling backwards as though he's afraid I'm going to lash out. “I... I'm to blame. What happened in Croatia, it... it's my fault,” he continues hurriedly, the words falling out of his mouth in a rush. “Your wife... You've got to know it's my fault. I could have... I should have...”

Not wanting to hear any more, I climb off the mattress and walk out of the room. I don't look back, not even when Will calls out my name. Finding both Benji and Jane sitting at the table, I gesture wildly at the door and knowing that nothing I can say will surprise them, coldly state, “I've done my stint at playing nursemaid and now need to get some sleep. Jane, you're up.”

“Still in asshole mode, I see,” Jane retorts, rolling her eyes at Benji as she nonetheless dutifully gets up and starts to move towards Will's room.

Ignoring her, I stride into my room and slam the door shut. Alone, I press my back against the door and, groaning, slide down to the floor.

Just... 

Fuck.

It all makes sense now. Perfect sense.

Only...

Not in the way Will would have expected.

~*~

The first time I met William Brandt he, with only the slightest of embellishments as to what really happened, fell into my lap. This however had nothing to do with actual design on his part and everything to do with combining the laws of gravity with not wearing a seatbelt. The Secretary introduced him as his Chief Analyst and, my mind too full of Cobalt and the small fact of life that the Goddamn Kremlin had just been blown up, I immediately dismissed him as a no doubt uptight, pencil pushing, uninteresting... nobody. Good looking, yes, but drab in his suit and boring tie. Intel has to come from somewhere, and for the Secretary to have dragged him out of the office and into the real world he had to have something – special – particularly useful about him, but in the grand scheme of what was going on he was of no interest to me.

Then... what happened, happened. 

The Secretary took a bullet to the forehead, the driver one to the back of the head, and the car we were travelling in veered off the bridge and plummeted into the quick flowing, icy river. It all happened both so unexpectedly and fast that there nothing anyone could have done. All that suddenly mattered was survival and, noticing that Will was still with me, I instinctively took charge and assumed... responsibility... for his continued – as well as could be expected, all things considered – well being and threw myself into the task of keeping us both alive. I then, once we were safely out of the water and he was too busy trying to apply logic – where there wasn't any – to why the gunmen had shot at the lit flare to do anything other than follow me unquestioningly, just kept him with me. Only knowing him to be an analyst, I fully expected him to be incapable of doing anything other than collapse in a heap if left to his own devices and he was, regardless of his desk-jockey position, a part of the IMF which in itself was enough of a reason for me to feel responsible for him.

So... He trailed after me, we joined up with Jane and Benji and, not to want to put a too fine a point on it or anything, we went on to the save the world from a nuclear strike. We also, for a bunch of very different people who had just been thrown together by fate, made a good team that I quickly decided I wanted to keep together. Oh. And Will? He wasn't just an analyst, he was a field agent with damn fine skills who just happened to have been taking a sabbatical in the office for reasons I...

Well, to put it bluntly, for reasons that I never really bothered to ask him about. Somewhere along the line I picked up on the vaguer than vague story that he'd been the team leader on a mission that had gone wrong and, taking it personally, he'd quit field work and taken up the position of Chief Analyst on the strength of it, but...

Whatever his reasons were, I just didn't care. I mean, what were they to me? He was a good agent who both fitted in nicely with the other members of my team and got on well with them, his field skills were exemplary and, despite his initial lack of enthusiasm to my offer of joining the team, I wouldn't take no for an answer anymore than I would listen to his excuses for refusing. And, in the end, for yet more reasons I couldn't find it in myself to care about, he gave – in to my self-absorbed demands – up and allowed himself to be talked into joining Benji and Jane on my team. He didn't seem exactly thrilled about it but, pleased that I'd got my way I just told myself that he'd come around in time and that we just had to get on with things.

In hindsight, as I sit on the floor with water dripping from the ceiling a mere inch or two away from my head in a stinking hot hovel in Bangkok as everything I've taken for granted disintegrates around me, I accept now that I shouldn't have been so... blinkered. I should have asked Will about why he'd turned his back on field work and, armed with his response, everything that happened these last nine months would have been... different. Not the carefully choreographed act we both indulged in that, regardless of the no doubt good intentions on Will's part and, let's face it, complete lack of intention on mine, led us to the mess we're in now.

And it is a mess.

A mess entirely of my own making.

I wanted Will on the team and I got him.

I worked out very early on that around me he acted differently than he did around the others. With Jane and Benji he'd – act normally – joke, bicker, laugh, be drawn into conversations whose sole purpose was either entertainment or simply to kill time and, in general, be as much a friend as a team mate. With me however it was always like he was endeavouring to keep me at arm's length. He was never rude or pointed enough to leave the room when I entered it or keep his back to me, and he'd – argue – speak up if the analyst in him could see flaws in my plan, but that was about the extent of our relationship. He'd never seek me out to share a drink or have a chat like he would the others and if, feeling contrary, I'd corner him and effectively force him to talk to me, he was always cagey, if not a little wary. The team still worked together though and in my own, again contrary, way, I liked having around. He was useful, he predominantly did as he was told, and some sick and twisted part of me liked knowing that he wasn't entirely comfortable in my presence.

Being an IMF field agent is like being an actor, only with much higher stakes. Instead of your goal being high fees, mass adulation and hopefully an Oscar, your goal is survival for yourself, your team and, in many cases, the world as you know it. You learn to hide your true self behind – some times literally – a mask and are constantly on the look out for new ways to adapt to whichever situation you find yourself in. Because of this, because I'm nothing if not good at convincing myself that what I'm doing is always, in one form or another, for the greater good, I looked on Will as an... experiment. 

How far could I push him before he snapped and finally told me to leave him the fuck alone?

If I always handed him the most dangerous part of the mission, would that do it? If I kept bossing and bitching at him, would he stand up for himself and tell me to back off?

I told myself that what I was doing was in everyone's best interests. The team needed to know Will's breaking point and I needed to know, should the need ever arise on a mission, how far I could, in a sense, go in keeping someone down. The others didn't like it, and today isn't the first time Jane's had a go at me, but I was convinced I knew what I was doing.

Besides, it wasn't like I was going so far as to force Will's hand or anything like that. If he wanted to speak up and tell me to go fuck myself, he could. In fact, I was waiting for it.

But he didn't. He just let me go.

Even when...

Johannesburg.

It wasn't planned. It hadn't even crossed my mind.

Actually... No. That's not completely true. It had crossed my mind, but only in terms of pure fantasy. He was, after all, very good looking and I couldn't deny that I liked, especially if he was aware of it, staring at him whenever I got the chance. But that was as far as it was ever meant to go. A harmless, private fantasy. Never did I think it would become a reality, that he'd capitulate so readily and willingly. 

My purpose for entering his room in our motel suite was both innocent and solely task orientated. My phone was flat and, not having any idea where mine was, I needed a charger. Will, because he was neat and organised and slightly like a Boy Scout in that he not only always had whatever anyone wanted but also knew where to lay his hands on it, I knew would have a charger so it was for that purpose and that alone that I went into his room to get it. How was I supposed to know that just as I walked through the door that he'd be walking out of the bathroom clad only in a towel clinging loosely to his hips? Or that the sight of so much damn fine, still damp and flushed pink from the heat of the shower flesh would bypass my head and go straight to my cock?

God, he was beautiful. That much I'll never forget.

I made the first move. I had to. Just as I had to quash the niggle of concern at the wary, hesitant, and possibly even resigned look in Will's expressive eyes as I backed him up against the wall and reached for the edge of his towel. I didn't ask, but I did – because that's me all over, a fucking hero – pause long enough for Will to suck his breath in, bite down on his bottom lip and give the tiniest of nods before stripping off his towel and, there's really no other way of putting it, having my way. It sounds bad, and if I could have my time over I like to think I would have gone about things differently, but ultimately it was far from one sided. Will came alive in the heat, the raw passion of the moment and we lost ourselves in the simple, age old act of sex. Not a word, not a coherent one at any rate, was spoken. It was just sex. Spectacular, glorious sex, that...

That hardly changed a thing between us.

It didn't tear down any barriers or make Will any more likely to voluntarily remain in my company.

No.

All it did was add another dimension to the game I was playing with him.

Now I not only had the angle of trying to push him into a corner team-wise to toy with, but I could also, apparently whenever the mood struck, fuck him. It was always... mutually beneficial... and he never said no – which he could have, and regardless of how much I might have wanted him I would have backed off without hesitation – but nor did he ever initiate it himself. He welcomed me, and gave as good, if not better, as he got, but he never made the first move. If I wanted him I could have him. If he wanted me however he did an incredibly good job of hiding it.

I was aware of this, that I was the one in charge, and I even accepted that I was using him. But I never dwelt on it for long. As far as I was concerned it all just... worked. Nobody was getting hurt. I had a convenient source of... release... basically at my fingertips and, yeah, life for me anyway was pretty good. What Will thought of it all was anyone's guess. The only time he let slip with so much as a hint to his own feelings was one morning I asked him why he never stayed the night – preferring always to leave me in the bed, even if it was his, and sleep elsewhere – and he replied something along the lines of... if I knew the truth I wouldn't want to wake up next to him anyway.

At the risk of it sounding like the running theme to this whole sorry story, I should have pushed him on it and sought clarification, but... I didn't. It wasn't perfect. Hell, it probably wasn't even overly healthy, but I liked what we had.

I also, as the months went on, found that I liked Will more and more too. Not just because he was accommodating and great in bed, or even because of the power trip I had going on over him, but because he was... nice. It was a lame way of describing it, and I never changed my treatment of him accordingly to show it, but I found over time that I liked watching him solely to see what sort of person he was as opposed to just looking for new ways to get under his skin and push his buttons. And, as Benji and Jane had seen from the very beginning, he was just... good. Again, a simple, barely adequate statement, but truthful nonetheless. He was good at what he did, good around people and, not that it really needs saying, easily a better man than I was. Having dug myself in such great a hole in regards to both my treatment of him and the way I'd been living in my own head pretty much ever since I'd first met him, it was clear even to me why the others preferred to be in Will's company over mine.

Not knowing how to back down or change, I told myself that the status quo was fine just how it was. Beginning to think I possibly wanted more – which, granted, I didn't deserve anyway – from Will was nothing more than a waste of my precious time as there was no reason things couldn't have continued as they had been indefinitely and, hey, why risk a good thing when you don't have to. Besides, relationships had never been my forte, based as they'd always been around many, many lies to protect my true IMF identity, so why so much as humour the idea of breaking a habit of a (professional) life time?

Will might have known what I did for a living, but he no more knew the... real... me than I knew his reasons for letting me walk all over him like he did. Anything I'd grown to feel for him over time was forever coloured by my earlier, carefully planned and executed treatment of him and I just had to accept that the mess I was in was entirely of my own making.

Which brings me, full circle, back to Bangkok and Will's confession regarding Croatia.

He thinks he's to blame. That he could have stopped what happened. That... as it has to be his fault, his guilt gives me every right to treat him any way I see fit, that he... deserves it.

I understand now. Will feels that he owes me.

Only he doesn't, as it's the other way around.

I owe him.

I owe him not only for Croatia, but now for everything that followed it as well.

And I know I'll never be able to make it up to him.

~*~

Knowing that it's something that has to be done, I apply the same vaguely insane logic to it that I use during missions – the whole climbing up the outside of the Burg Khalifa, for but one example – and just... do it. There's probably a better way of letting Will, in oh so many ways, off the hook but, and I'll freely own up here to taking the coward's way out, simply emailing him the file is the way I'm going to go. Sitting him down and actually talking him through it all? Dear God, while it might be the most decent way to do it, there's just no way it bears thinking about. If I had to watch his face while I told him that...

Just... No. No way. I'd rather climb the exterior of the Burg Khalifa from the ground to its upper most point buck naked and during a sand storm than do that.

Opening my door cautiously, I'm relieved to find the main room empty and hurry to retrieve my laptop from the table. Once I have it, for reasons I can only liken to masochism, I sneak over to Will's door and actually, for a few seconds at least, contemplate going in and seeing if he's okay. That's all. I may be an asshole with a lot he needs to get off his chest, but even I know now would be far from the best time to do it and – that's without taking the audience of Benji and Jane as I suspect they're both in the room with him into consideration – would simply like to see for myself how he's going. Bad news travelling fast, I know he can't have deteriorated since I left him as one of the others, Jane probably, and with a 'this is all your fault' look on her face, would have told me by now. So... 

He must be okay and, as I'm just being stupid standing here with my hand hovering over the door handle, I may as well retreat to my room and get on with doing what it is I clearly have to do. Only... It's one thing both knowing and thinking this and another thing entirely actually doing it, and I continue to stand there for a good few minutes trying to convince myself to move until the sound of movement inside the room achieves what I can't on my own and causes me to hurriedly back away from the door and scurry back to my room. Entering it, I shut the door behind me and, with my supremely irrational heart beating as though I'd ran a marathon as a sprint, sink down on the mattress on the floor.

Not wanting to think about what – whatever the fuck it was exactly – just happened, I quickly open up the computer and log in to my private email account. Bringing up a new message, I address it to Will, type 'Croatia' as the subject line, and attach a file that, until he reads it, has only ever been seen by myself and the now dead Secretary. It explains everything about what happened in Croatia and will open his eyes to just how horribly, albeit inadvertently, he's been played and how nothing he thinks to be true is acually the truth at all.

Hitting 'send', I resign myself to putting something in motion that I have no idea where it will end and, feeling ill, log the computer off before lying down and closing my eyes. Somehow I manage to fall into a light doze and after an undisclosed period of time has passed wake up to Jane standing over me. Immediately alert, I jump to my feet and look at her expectantly. “Will?” I query anxiously, my mind instantly choosing to think the worst. “Is he okay?”

Raising an eyebrow at my over the top reaction, Jane nods. “Will's going to be fine,” she replies matter-of-factly. “His fever's broken and he's sitting up. He both feels and, it just has to be said, looks pretty crappy though and I honestly don't think there's any way the airline will let him on the plane.”

“Oh.” I frown and glance at my watch. “Take off isn't for another six hours. Maybe...”

“Not a chance,” Jane interrupts, shaking her head. “He's too weak to stand without assistance and is probably at least twenty-four hours away from being able to remain out of bed for longer than ten minutes.”

Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair and scowl. “So we're stuck here.”

“Will is,” Jane agrees with a shrug. “And Benji and I have agreed to stay here with him. You, however, are free to go. As not all of us need to stay, you may as well catch the flight as planned and we'll meet you back in Washington in a couple of days.”

“You'll let me know if his condition changes?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my enthusiasm at her offer of getting the hell out of here on my own. I don't deserve it, but there's no way I'm not going to jump at the chance of travelling alone and being as far away from Will when he reads my email as I possibly can.

“Of course,” Jane responds, giving me a strange look as she turns around and opens the door. “We'll also let you know when we're on our way.”

“Thanks,” I murmur dismissively as, wanting to get out here as swiftly as I can, I reach for my bag and begin shoving everything in to it. “See you back in Washington, then.”

“Uh...” Jane looks at me for a moment before shrugging and slowly shaking her head. “Fine. We'll see you then.”

~*~

Slowing to a jog, I turn into my driveway and make my way up to the front door. Reaching it, I grab my keys from the pocket of my track pants and reluctantly glance at the time on my watch. The others are returning to Washington today and the time tells me that not only have I been running for well over two hours but that their plane would have landed ninety minutes ago. It also tells me that the relative peace and quiet I've been mooching through these past four days are soon to come to an end and that, instead of pretending there's nothing wrong, I need to brace myself for the team debrief scheduled at IMF headquarters tomorrow morning.

A small part of me, the part that has no qualms about throwing myself out of windows a ridiculous number of storeys up, whispers that I should seek Will out today, that I owe him at least that much. Another part of me, however, the bigger, far more dominating part, baulks at the idea and tells me that what's done is done and, hey, while you're at it, what will be will be. Grovelling isn't going to change anything, it's highly likely that I'm the last person Will wants to see anyway, so... Just go about your blinkered existence, front him in the office tomorrow as though nothing had ever happened and just see how it all flies. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but as they say, shit happens. And in this instance it's shit very much of my own making.

Unlocking the door and stepping into the house, I decide that as it's too early to just swallow a pill and knock myself out for the night that I'll call Luther up and see if he'd like to meet for a drink. Drinking myself into a stupor, sadly, isn't an answer as I'm yet to walk into HQ nursing a hangover and have no intention of breaking this record but, feeling a little over my own company, having a drink or two with Luther would still be better than just hanging out here and staring blankly at the walls.

Pleased that I have an idea of sorts in relation to how to get through the night, I walk into the kitchen to get a bottle of water and come to a sudden, breath restricting stop when I notice that I'm not alone, that someone...

That...

Will.

Fuck.

Sitting at my kitchen table, looking up from the newspaper spread out in front of him and with an unreadable expression on his face, is Will. He's still pale and appears a little thinner than when I last saw him, but he's really here, and...

Damn, damn, damn. So much for thinking that when the time came I'd be the one with the upper hand.

“You're slipping,” Will comments, picking up a cup of what is most likely coffee from the table and calmly taking a sip. “If I wanted you dead, well, you would be.”

“If?” I mutter drily as, water no longer going to even come close to cutting it, I walk past the refrigerator and grab the half empty bottle of scotch that, solely for sheer reasons of laziness, has been living near the coffee-machine. Not wanting to appear too desperate in front of my both unexpected and unwanted guest, I then get a glass from out of the dishwasher and, without bothering to check if it's clean or not, slosh a decent amount of the amber fluid into it. “I thought that would have been a given,” I add after I've taken a fortifying mouthful and, because I know I have to, leaning against the bench and looking over at Will.

Shrugging, he takes another sip of coffee before putting the cup down and closing the newspaper. “I don't want you dead,” he replies, shifting in his seat to better face me. “I may not like you very much or even know you, but you being dead wouldn't wave a magic wand and make everything miraculously better.”

“Pleased to hear it.” I toast him with my glass. “Sorry. I'm being rude. Would you like a drink?”

“I made myself a coffee while I was waiting,” Will responds, his expression clearly telling me that my lack of good manners is the least of my problems as far as he's concerned.

“Okay.” Finishing the scotch in my glass, I pour myself another and hold my arms out in a 'go on, I'm waiting, hit me with it' gesture.

Nodding his acceptance of my silent offer, Will narrows his eyes and sighs. “Fine. Croatia. It was all a set up. You... Fuck! You set me up, Ethan! No. Not just me. You set my team up and ruined...”

“I didn't set you up,” I interrupt, taking another very much needed mouthful of scotch before walking over to the table and taking the seat opposite Will. “Well... Not you or your team personally. In fact, I...” It won't mean anything to to him, but if this is going to be my only opportunity to try for a clean, or as clean as I'm ever likely to get it, slate I have to make my side of the story clear. “I never knew which team scored the protection detail.”

“Yeah. Right,” Will snorts. “You want me to believe that Mr Control Freak didn't oversee every last detail of it all? Pull the other one.”

“It's true. I didn't know,” I respond, knowing that I have to push on in the face of his disbelief and anger. “The Secretary asked if I wanted to personally pick the team for the detail but I didn't, I... I wasn't interested in knowing.”

“You weren't interested in...” Trailing off, Will shakes his head and scowls. “That's just fucking great, it really is. My team scored the detail because, what, the Secretary drew our names out of a hat or something?”

“I don't know,” I reply quietly, hoping that he can tell from the expression on my face that I'm telling the truth. “The Secretary was a clever man. I'm sure he would have known what he was doing when he chose you.”

His scowl intensifying, Will folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair. “Again, great, that just makes it so much better. He chose my team to witness, and thus increase the believability of it all, a fake hit. That... Hell, Ethan, that just makes me feel so fucking proud. I'm glad he held me in such high esteem.”

“Of course he held you in high esteem. He made you Chief Analyst, and that's not a position...”

“Guilt!” Will snaps, cutting me off. “He would have given me the position out of guilt.”

“You don't know that.”

“Actually, you're right. I don't. Like everything I've taken for real these past two years, I don't know anything. I'm just a pawn.” Pausing, Will gives me an icy look. “Actually... Your pawn. I'm your pawn, aren't I, Ethan?”

Okay. This may possibly be going worse than expected. “Will...”

“Don't 'Will' me. This, all of it, it all leads back to you. You want to free Julie so you come up with a fake hit with real witnesses. I get that, I really do. But you never took the consequences into consideration and simply don't give a fuck that people got hurt in the process.” His shoulders slumping, he sighs and glances down at the paper. “I blamed myself for your wife's death, Ethan,” he continues softly. “I kept telling myself that if I'd told you about the reports of the hit squad being in town that she would have been saved. When the body was found I felt as though all the blame lay entirely at my feet, that I may as well have been the one to apply the final cut. Her... Her blood was on my hands as surely as if I'd killed her myself and I...” He glances up and gives me a beseeching looking that I feel all the way to the pit of my stomach. “I hated myself. Hell, I not only hated myself but I also doubted my skills as an agent and felt as though I'd let everyone down.”

“I...” Oh yeah. This is far worse than I imagined it would be. “Shit! Will, I know this is a case of too little, too late and all of that, but I want you to believe how terribly sorry I am for everything that's happened. You're right. The detail really was simply to bear witness to Julie's so-called death and to give credence to the story. But that's all it was ever meant to be. No one... Uh... No one was ever to take it personally.”

“Sorry to disappoint, to put a dint in your great plan,” Will mutters. “Sorry for being human and for having feelings. Oh... And sorry too for the huge fucking change in my life not being interesting enough to you for you to even read my file. Just... Seriously, Ethan, there's just no help for it, you're a piece of work.”

“The plan was never meant to hurt anyone,” I murmur, helpless both in the face of Will's obvious anguish and my complete inability to do anything about it. I'd like to be able to get up and go to him, to put my hands on his shoulders or rub his back, but I know my touch wouldn't be appreciated and that if I don't want to risk making things even worse that I have to keep my distance. “Look, Will, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you felt as though you were to blame and gave up field work because of it. I'm sorry it changed the course of your life and that I was too selfish to read your file. I'm also sorry that the Secretary took you to Russia because if he hadn't we never would have met and... uh... I wouldn't be still fucking over your life. I... Hell. I'm sorry for everything.”

“So you should be,” Will retorts in a voice strangely devoid of emotion as he looks across the table at me with an expression not of loathing or anger, but of disappointment on his face. “I just don't know where I stand anymore, Ethan, and it's all because of you.”

“I know.” Noticing my glass is empty, I stand up and go over to the bench to pour myself another drink. “You probably won't want my help, but I can put a word in with the Secretary about getting you on another team. Maybe, if you'd like, even your own team.”

“I don't want another team.” Standing up, Will pushes his chair under the table and, once he's assured I'm looking at him, adds pointedly, “I like working with Jane and Benji.”

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “I'll go then. You can have Jane and Benji and I'll get another team.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. You may be an asshole, but we work well together and I don't think the team should be messed with.”

Well. Fuck. I can't say I saw that one coming. “Are you sure?”

“That you're an asshole?” Will nods. “Yeah. I am.”

“Not that. The keeping the team together bit?”

He nods again and begins to walk out of the kitchen. “Yeah. I'm sure about that too.”

“But...” Here goes nothing. “Why? Given how you feel about me, how you've got every right to feel, why would you want us to keep working together.”

Coming to a stop by the door, Will glances over his shoulder and flashes me a grim, thin lipped smile. “That's for me to know and for you to perhaps one day find out.”

~*~ 

“I can't believe I'm about to say this,” Jane murmurs, squeezing my hand and, in keeping with our cover of a happily married couple enjoying a stroll down a crowded New York street as we keep a watchful eye on Will as he goes to meet an informant, smiling brightly, “but I swear the two of you were happier when you were still behaving like an asshole.”

“Darling,” I grind out through gritted teeth as, regardless of whether anyone is actually watching us or not, I return her smile. “I can't say I have any idea what you're talking about.” 

That, of course, is a total lie, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be dragged along this path. Three months have passed since Will walked out of my kitchen and with surprisingly few changes to it, life just... goes on. Although I toyed with the idea of ignoring Will's desire to keep the team together and requesting a transfer for myself anyway, I couldn't go through with it in the end because I realised that he was right, that we did work well as a team and that, really, little – positive – would be achieved by changing it. So... We're still a team and our mission work isn't suffering from the uneasy calm Will and I are somehow managing to present. We're... polite, cool and – indifferent – accepting of each other, Croatia is never mentioned and Will has made not being anywhere alone with me outside of a mission situation into an art form. If the four of us are having a meal somewhere and Benji and Jane excuse themselves to go the bathroom, Will follows Benji I swear for no other reason than he doesn't want to be stuck at the table with me.

But, whatever. I made this bed for myself and so long as the team is able to continue to function, I'll force myself to lie uneasily in it.

“Of course you do, honey,” Jane replies with a smirk as she reaches up with her free hand and ruffles my hair. “You were staring at...”

“We're meant to be keeping him in our sight at all times, remember?” I interrupt, my annoyance at this unwanted conversation topic being kept well hidden by a bright smile.

“Yeah, but you're staring at his ass.”

“Oh.” Not much I can say to that, really.

“Now, I'll admit it's worth staring at and, yes, it is attached to the rest of him,” Jane murmurs, laughing as she lets go of my hand in order to link her elbow around mine and pull me closer, “but you've got to admit you staring intently at some guy's ass isn't really doing all that much for our lovey-dovey cover act.”

Leaning down a little, I kiss Jane's cheek and murmur, “Is that better?”

“For the cover, yes,” she retorts, broadening her smile and giving me a wink. “For me however, not so much.” Reaching up, she trails her hand gently along the line of my jaw and, playing the role of happily married wife for all that it's worth, laughs again. “Poor Ethan. You're just lucky I'm secure enough in myself to not take it personally.”

“Take what personally?” Noticing that Will's stopped at a red pedestrian light, I pause in front of a shop window displaying of all things women's lingerie and feign interest in a red lace garter belt. 

“The fact that I'd need more than the contents of this window to make me the one you really want to be kissing,” Jane replies quietly as she tightens her hold on my elbow and gives me a knowing look that I can't help but notice is tinged with sadness. “You need to talk to him.”

Not liking where Jane appears to be going with this, I shake my head and hope she gets the hint to just let it drop. She's right, of course, but given that I struggle to acknowledge this myself there's no way I'm going to talk about it. The fact that she can clearly see it is bad enough in itself and I make a mental note to better watch myself when I'm around Will. Given that I wasn't even aware that I was – so obvious – doing it, it'll be hard, but God knows I owe it to him to just leave him alone and give him space. Let's face it, it's hardly his fault that I – the asshole who ruined his life – miss what we used to have together. It's not even just the sex itself, it's the... connection... we were at least capable of making in bed, and...

I don't know. The only logical explanation I've been able to come up with is simply wanting what I can't have.

The thing is though, there's want. There's definitely want. I look at him and I want to do whatever I can to make him forgive me, to just be his friend and let him know that, yes, he can actually trust me and that I'll never hurt him again.

“Me talking to him is the last thing he wants,” I murmur at last when I realise that Jane is still peering at me intently as she waits for a response.

“I thought it was the not talking thing that got you into this mess in the first place?”

“Take my word for it, Jane, he doesn't want me talking to him,” I state with another shake of my head as, the light turning green, Will begins to walk across the intersection. “Come on, he's on the move.”

~*~

Paying no attention to the barked command to both get to my feet and to show the General the respect he deserves, I open my one still good eye and, Western arrogance being all I have left to give, flip my visitors the bird. This, as expected, causes the General's weedy-faced minion to have complete conniptions and, stalking into my cell, he delivers a vicious kick to my ribs that, given that I'm already pretty much numb all over, I hardly even feel.

“Get to your feet,” he demands in heavily accented English as, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the smell inside my cell, the General, who I don't recognise as having encountered before, steps hesitantly through the door.

“Nah. I don't think so,” I mutter. “If he wants to talk to me he can get down to my level.”

“Enough!” Clicking his fingers, two underlings to the minion scurry into the cell and haul me to my feet. He then, because he's a bastard who just happens to thrive under the appreciative eye of an audience, punches me in the stomach and is in the process of winding up for another blow when the General stops him by placing his hand lightly on his arm.

“That is enough,” the General states in Korean, “I wish to question him, not watch him bleed.”

Looking suitably abashed, the minion drops his arm and, standing to attention, nods. “Of course, General,” he replies, following the General's lead and switching to his native Korean. “I will have him taken to the interrogation suite.”

The General shakes his head and with nothing more than a glance at the underlings to get them to back away, roughly grabs my arm and begins to haul me out of the cell. “There is no need. I can take him myself.”

“But...”

“You dare question me?”

“No, sir!” The minion gestures at the underlings and sends them from the cell. 

“Good. You too are dismissed.”

“Sir.” Looking far from impressed at either his dismissal or the General's cavalier handling of North Korea's current number one American prisoner, the minion nods, clicks his heels together and strides out of the cell.

His expression giving nothing away, the General tightens his hold on my arm and marches me out into the corridor. Weak from my ten day captivity and slightly delirious from hunger, dehydration and too many beatings, I stumble after him and wonder if my luck – if that's what it can be called – is going to run out and that this is it, my number's finally up. I don't want to die, but I knew when I accepted this solo mission into North Korea that if I was caught I was on my own and that, IMF denying all knowledge of my existence, extraction was never going to be on the cards. Having been in dire situations before, I haven't given up entirely and know that I have to keep alert, that the smallest of things can initiate an escape, but...

I'm not holding my breath, that's all. Besides, this ending was always a possibility before I even stepped foot in the country. I'm not suicidal and, again, really don't want to die, but not feeling as though I've got all that much to live for either, the mission was one I took on eagerly. At least if it all ends here it will be on my own head and the team won't be able to blame themselves for my increasingly erratic – sure, I'll throw myself out of the building or run across that mine field. You want someone to walk unarmed into a war zone then, hey, I'm your man – behaviour finally getting me killed.

Too focussed on trying not to feel sorry for myself, I don't notice that the General has dragged me past the usual interrogation room until we're stopped at a locked door and he's ordering yet another minion to open it for us. Looking confused, the minion shakes his head and pleads with the General that the door is out of bounds, that he's not to let the prisoner through it as it leads directly outside. The General, however, isn't having a bar of it and rants and raves about how the minion will be finding himself in a cell of his own if he doesn't open the door this very second until, fearing for his own safety, the minion reluctantly gives in and unlocks the door.

Satisfied at having gotten his way, the General tilts his head in acknowledgement at the minion and, opening the door, shoves me through it. Following me out into fresh, cold air, he keeps me upright as I stumble and propels me down a concrete ramp towards a waiting black van. Nearing it, I note the side door slide open just as the original minion barges through the door and comes barrelling towards us.

“General! I must insist that you explain yourself!”

“Fuck,” the General hisses in English as he gives me a shove in the back that sends me staggering towards the van and the pair of arms that are suddenly reaching out of it and waiting for me. “Get in the van!”

Not needing telling twice, even though I'm still not entirely sure what's going on here, I allow the arms to drag me into the waiting van before fighting them off and positioning myself so I can see how the General manages to explain himself to the indignant minion. Although I'm half expecting a shouting match to ensue, I'm not too surprised when the minion pulls a gun on the General only to find himself a split second later staring down the barrel of his own gun as... the General...having snatched it from his hand in a lightning quick movement, points it directly at his chest.

“Guess what?” a familiar British accented voice announces from behind me as, having had enough of playing with him, the fake General delivers first a kick and then a knockout blow to the minion. “We're all disavowed again. Talk about it becoming a habit.”

“Benji?” I mumble disbelievingly, allowing him to jerk me backwards as... the General... comes flying into the van and yells at the driver to get us the hell out of here.

“Who were you expecting?” Benji replies with a grin as he shifts around me in order to slide the door shut. “The Avengers?”

“But...” Falling silent, I gaze at... the General... as crouching by the door, he first blinks brown contacts out to display blue eyes I honestly never thought I'd see again before tearing the mask away from his face and throwing it on the floor with a look of disgust tinged relief. “Will...”

Ignoring my whispered use of his name, Will nods at Benji and, without once looking at me, clambers into the front of the van to sit next to the driver who, as I can't see them, I'm assuming has to be Jane.

Retrieving a hypodermic syringe that I know contains a powerful painkiller from a bag by his feet, Benji kneels over me and prepares to inject the needle into my arm. “He wouldn't take no for an answer,” he states, glancing towards the front of the van, a fond smile stretching across his lips. “We all wanted to come in and get you, but it was Will who was the most determined. Now... Shhh... You need to rest and we need to get back to the chopper. So...” He injects the contents of the syringe into my vein and the last thing I hear as everything descends into darkness is that everything's okay now, we're all back together again.

~*~

“Does something about this strike you as... off... somehow?”

The sound of Will's voice suddenly reminding me that I'm on a job and that, yes, concentrating on both my surroundings and the task at hand would probably be a good idea, I hasten my pace in order to catch up with him and ask, “What do you mean?”

“I don't know...” Trailing off, Will shrugs and jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Just forget it. I'm probably only imagining things anyway.”

“You sure?” Alert enough now to be on my guard, I don't want to just brush Will's concerns off in case he's on to something. The survival instinct being second nature when you're in our line of work, what might seem like nothing to one person – the sight of a mobile phone lying on the ground, finding a door unexpectedly unlocked, or even just a seemingly baseless feeling in the pit of your stomach – can quite literally be all that stands between you and a sudden life or death situation. Just because I'm wandering around caught in my own little world of going nowhere thoughts doesn't for a second mean that Will can't be on to something and it would be foolhardy of me to just dismiss him without giving him another opportunity to speak his mind.

Nodding, Will glances over his shoulder at me and, with a brief smile that doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes, gives another shrug. “Yeah. It's just me. Some days I don't even feel as though I know what's right anymore, so... Forget it. Just forget I ever opened my mouth.”

Not convinced that he isn't on to something but feeling no closer to being able to put my finger on it than he clearly can, I nod my acceptance and together we continue to walk towards the office / warehouse complex at the back of the transport yard. Although the land we're on belongs to an operational heavy haulage company, it's currently devoid of all life as they close at midday on a Wednesday and we're here not because we want something shipped across Europe but because we have to pick up a briefcase containing hard fought for documents pertaining to a drug cartel from the IMF team waiting in the safe house inside the warehouse. It's not a mission so much as it is providing a highly skilled courier service back to the States in order for the other team to remain on the ground in Prague. While not the sort of... menial... task I usually choose to undertake, when it came up I didn't hesitate over accepting the job because...

Simply put, simple is what we all need.

Two weeks have passed since I was rescued from North Korea, but while my body has healed as well as can be expected I still feel... disconnected... somehow. I don't regret the mission, nightmares don't mar my sleep, the pain even while I was still healing wasn't anything I haven't lived with before, I'm happy – even if I can't give any indication of showing it – to be both still alive and back with the team, but... For some reason it's still just not enough. Not, mind you, that I even know what would be enough. Will, and Benji made this as clear to me as he possibly could, went both out of his way and above and beyond in his quest to rescue me, yet I haven't been able to find the words to thank him and he hasn't mentioned it. 

We still don't talk about anything outside of IMF related topics but, unless I'm mistaken – which given that I'm not above grasping at straws at the moment – he does appear to have been... lingering... more in the rooms I've been in as opposed to bolting the second we're alone together and I like to think that has to count for... something. What exactly that... something... may be exactly, however... God alone knows. The only thing I can say with any confidence is that I sure as hell don't. Not having done anything useful in my North Korean prison cell like rethink my entire life or come up with any form of logical plan to make things up to Will once and for all and for both of us to be able to move properly – even if it is ultimately separately – forward , I still feel as though I'm just sleep walking through each day as they come.

Something's got to give, I know that. Just as I also know we can't continue this way indefinitely. It's not fair on the team and we're all tired. Tired of the awkward moments, tired of biting tongues and feeling torn in different directions, and just... tired, both physically and mentally tired.

But, tomorrow, as is always the case, is another day.

Another day to search for the right moment or the right words. Another day to – man up – find the courage to either grovel or make heartfelt offers to do whatever it takes to make things okay.

Just... Another day to get through.

Reaching the warehouse, I step through the door Will's holding open for me and, as he carefully pulls it shut, can't help but notice the scar on his arm caused by the bullet grazing it all those months ago in Bangkok. It's barely, having healed nicely, noticeable, but because I know what caused it and how easily it could have been far, far worse, the sight of it startles me and, pathetically, I have to quickly look away.

He could have died in Bangkok. I could have died in North Korea.

I...

I have to say something.

I have to say something before it's too late.

“Ethan?”

Will's voice once again surprising me, I jerk my head around to stare at him and disguise my lack of concentration with an inquiring grunt. “Huh?”

“You've been here before, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing around the container and forklift filled warehouse before giving me an expectant, if not slightly curious look. 

“Uh... Yeah. I have,” I respond, relieved that he's only wanting to know something I can actually answer. “Why?”

“The hidden entrance to the safe house, I'm wondering where it is, that's all. I know it's meant to be by the back wall, but...”

“It's to the left of that TNT Logistics container,” I interrupt, pointing to the back left corner of the warehouse. “See? Actually...” Falling abruptly silent as I realise I don't like what it is I'm seeing, I grab Will by the hem of his T-shirt to stop him from walking off and, when, freezing, he slowly turns to face me, raise my finger to my lips in a 'shhh' gesture. “It's open,” I continue in a whisper as, instantly on high alert, we both draw our weapons and begin to quietly run towards the door.

IMF operational policy dictates that a door to a safe house should never, under any circumstances, be left open and I know, even if it is better late than never, that we're about to encounter the cause of Will's earlier unease. I have no preconceived ideas in regards to what we might be walking into, but at the same time I know, deep down, that it's going to be bad, that our walk-in-the-park assignment is about to well and truly go pear shaped.

Reaching the doorway, I catch Will's eye and through a single hand motion indicate that I'll enter first. Nodding, he steps back to let me past and waits until I've cleared the short, dark corridor that leads into the rooms before following me. Our training being so... deeply ingrained, the sight that greets us in the main room is instantly brushed over in the name of both securing the location and confirming that we're alone and no hostiles are lurking in the – no longer – safe house. Will checks the small bathroom while I investigate the second room and, finding them both empty, we meet back in the first room within seconds of having first having entered the corridor. Then, content that we appear to be in no immediate risk but still feeling far from safe, we take in the hideous scene we've found ourselves in, and...

For a moment it's as though time stands still. In reality, like the time it took to secure the location, it would only be a few seconds, but it feels like longer. Much, much longer.

The four agents in the room are all dead. Two, neither of whom I recognise, were clearly taken by surprise as both sport a single bullet wound – a picture perfect example of a highly trained assassin if ever there was one – to the forehead. Another, who I think, although it's hard to tell given that there's not all that much recognisable about him, may be a friend of Luther's, must have put up a fight, as along with the number of bullet holes in his chest there are clear defensive wounds on his hands and arms and his head looks as though it's been half caved in by either fists or an opportunistic weapon. Then, proving that even in times of crisis it appears to be in my nature to save the worst to last, there's the sole woman. Beaten, her blouse and bra torn open and with her skirt pushed up around her waist and her pants down around her ankles, it's obvious she was raped before the bastard, having had his sick fun, finished her off by lodging a bullet in her heart.

Once I've taken it all in and dispassionately accepted that it's too late, that there's nothing we can do, I brush past Will as he stands flat-footed in the middle of the room before, feeling as though it's up to me to say something, pausing in the doorway to the second room and turning to face him. “I'll just check the cache,” I state, referring to the hidden collection of weapons, passports and cash that all IMF safe houses have, “then I'll put in a call to the Sweepers.”

His expression one of obvious anguish, Will slowly blinks at me and, placing his hand over his mouth as though he's close to throwing up, shakes his head. “That's Linda Morrison,” he mumbles, grabbing a black suit jacket from the back of the chair and gently draping it over the dead woman's naked torso before crouching next to her and smoothing her skirt down. “She was a linguist,” he continues hoarsely. “I used to work with her sometimes in the office. She... She hated field work as it took her away from her young daughter.”

“Will...”

“She shouldn't have been here. She should still be in Washington with Emma. This... This should never have happened. I...”

Sighing, I leave Will to his pain not because I want to or even simply because I have no idea in regards to what, if anything, I could say to him to help alleviate it, but solely because I know I have to keep moving, that following through with protocol in these situations is the number one, the... only... priority. It's the right, IMF sanctioned thing to do, but it still feels like a cop out on my part and once I've confirmed that the cache is intact, I hurry back to Will and, still feeling remarkably like a dead loss, hover over him. “The cache is untouched,” I mutter lamely as I hesitate over whether to place my hand on his shoulder or not. I'd like to, but the fear of it either being misread or, given the no man's land our... relationship... exists in, offending him somehow stops me. “I... I'll just put the call in to the Sweepers and they can come and clean up...”

“Clean up,” Will interrupts, frowning as, suddenly, he stands up and, clearly more alert than he was only a moment ago, scans the room. “Assuming this... this slaughter... is the work of the cartel, they usually clean up after themselves by blowing everything to hell, which could mean...”

“Bomb,” I groan and, like Will, quickly begin looking over the room with fresh eyes. Instead of taking in the dead bodies, I totally disregard their presence and focus in on anything that could be viewed as out of the ordinary. Handbag, a collection of black leather luggage that looks exactly like the black leather luggage we cart around when on a mission, brown paper bag complete with take-away stains, a pile of newspapers, three laptops, iPad, a collection of drink bottles...

“There,” Will murmurs as, beating me to it, he points out a rough looking green canvas holdall by the door into the bathroom. “That stands out as different.”

“Great.” I smile grimly and carefully walk over to the bag. “Just when I thought this afternoon couldn't get any better.” Kneeling down, I slowly, tentatively, unzip the bag and, yep, just as I would have felt safe betting my life on, it contains a decidedly high-tech looking incendiary device. Which, of course, is set to go off in two minutes. “Oh look, and there it is, the cherry on top of everything else” I state, shuffling back from the bag before jumping to my feet and, grabbing Will's arm as I pass, making for the exit. “You called it, it's a bomb and it's set to blow.”

Shaking off my hold, Will remains where he's standing and gazes at me through wide eyes. “The agents,” he murmurs, gesturing frantically at the bodies. “They deserve a proper burial. We need to take them with...”

“I agree, but we don't have time. This place is going to be blown to shit in little over a minute and we've got to move!” Shaking my head, I make to grab his arm again but, obviously expecting it, he shifts away from my hand and, almost as though he's frozen, continues to stare at me. “Will! I'm sorry, I really am, but... you've got to believe me... we just don't have the time.”

“But...” Swallowing hard, Will nods and, before I can stop him, darts over to Linda Morrison's body.

“Will!” Goddamn it. To hell with my own safety, if I have to knock him out and sling him over my back to get him out of here then I will.

“This belonged to her great grandmother,” he murmurs, bending over and, with an apologetic look, tearing a gold chain free from Linda's neck before spinning around and, reaching for me as he passes, bolting for the door. “I'm sure she'd want it to go to her daughter,” he adds over his shoulder as, relieved to be finally on the move, I follow him down the small corridor and out into the warehouse.

Knowing that time is very much of the essence, that we don't have the luxury of being able to slow down, we run at full pace through the warehouse and have barely made it out into the yard when the bomb explodes and the the force of the explosion blows us off our feet and through the air. A wall of containers providing quite possibly the world's hardest net and stopping our flight, we fall heavily to the ground and, with ringing ears, for a second just lie there, winded and struggling to get our breath back. Then, over the sound of both the fire and our gasping, we both, if the look of realisation on Will's face is anything to go by, hear it simultaneously. The popping sound of gas tanks expanding.

“Shit!” Staggering to his feet, Will hauls me up and shoves me in the general direction of where we parked the car. “Trucks. Transport yard. Fuel. This place is going to be wiped from the face of the earth”

“Less talking, more running,” I shout, grabbing his arm and making sure he's with me every hurried step of the way. Be it either luck or simple timing on our side, we not only make it to the car but, after sticking it in reverse, flooring it through the gate and doing a one-eighty, we're even safely on the main road before the truck yard goes up. “That...” Unable to help myself, I gaze at the huge fire ball filling the rear vision mirror and swear under my breath. “Fuck! That... That was closer than I would have liked.”

Sighing, Will turns around from staring out the back window and, as he settles in his seat, lightly trails his finger along my arm. “You're wounded,” he murmurs, holding out his blood stained fingers for me to see. “Whatever did it has already fallen out, but you've got a nasty gash on your arm.”

“Oh.” Glancing at my arm, I see that he's right, that an angry red wound that I can't even feel is gauged into my flesh, and shrug. “So I am.”

“I...” Tightening his grip on the gold chain still in his hand, Will leans his head against the passenger door window and closes his eyes. “I don't think I can do this any longer...”

~*~

While reluctantly admitting it to myself is one thing, actually doing anything about it is something else again and, as I stand staring vacantly at the door in front of me, I can't deny that knocking on it, let alone stepping through it and into the room, is just about the last thing I feel up to doing. In fact, I'd rather halo drop unarmed into hostile territory or be given the job of cleaning every single weapon in the IMF's armoury by hand than do what it is I know I have to do. It's only a simple task too. Not onerous or posing any form of physical threat. If I manned up and made my move I could probably be out of the room and on my way – to nowhere – in under thirty seconds. I know all this just as I know I'm being – pathetic – stupid, but still I hesitate.

What if my entirely innocent gesture is misread and I inadvertently make an already bad day worse? Before Bangkok the events at the hauler's yard would have been a catalyst – for me to make the first, some might even call it predatory, move – to lose ourselves in sex, and while that's actually the furthest thing from my mind, who's to say Will isn't going to take my sudden appearance in his room as an uninvited... return to form?

Clutching at straws where straws don't even exist, I glance over my shoulder at Benji and Jane as, sprawled on the sofa with their glasses of scotch perched precariously on the overstuffed arms, they share anecdotes about the dead agents and, because the only alternative is to give in to tears, smile and laugh through their grief. The safe house is an apartment on the fifth floor of a now dilapidated but once grand mansion that, while perfectly adequate in terms of creature comforts, is a little on the small side and its three bedrooms all lead directly off the living room. I suspect, as I continue to dither and wait for inspiration, that if I were to catch Jane's eyes that she'd be willing enough to – put me out of my misery – come over and complete my self-imposed task for me but, perhaps knowing I'm wanting her for something I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, she doesn't look up and keeps her gaze locked on Benji as he launches into what appears to be an increasingly animated tale. I suspect it's about Linda Morrison as, like Will, he'd worked with her in the office and seemed particularly distraught at the news of her death, and it's the thought of not wanting to impose on their coping-with-their-grief mechanism that finally sees me – taking a deep breath for luck – briefly rapping my knuckles on the door. I then, without waiting for an answer, push the door open and, holding the bottle of scotch out in front of me like some sort of shield, step in to the room.

Will, who's sitting on the edge of the bed gazing down at the gold chain, which I can see now has a small gold Celtic cross hanging from it, held loosely in his hand, glances up at me with an unreadable expression on his face. As I'd half expected either annoyance or a blunt instruction to fuck off, supreme indifference on Will's part actually comes as something of a relief and, plastering a bland, non threatening smile across my lips, I walk over to the room's small, round table and place the scotch bottle on it. “Just wanted to make sure you got your share,” I state quietly. “If you haven't got a glass there's plenty...”

“I've got a glass,” Will interrupts as he carefully transfers the chain to his left hand before standing up and retrieving a glass from the bedside table. Walking over to the table, he drops the chain in a tiny black velvet lined box that usually holds ear pieces in it and, once he's satisfied that it's safely put away, reaches for the bottle. “Glenmorangie, 18 year old single malt,” he murmurs, shrugging. “The good stuff.”

“Gift from the Powers That Be,” I reply, taking the bottle from him and, unscrewing the lid, three quarters filling his glass from it.

Sighing, Will gestures for me to leave the glass on the table and, looking far from impressed at IMF's gift of expensive alcohol, rolls his eyes. “So... Drink yourself into a stupor on us tonight and... tomorrow's another day?” 

“Something like that,” I respond, tightening the lid back on the bottle and, as is becoming par for the course these days, not really knowing what else to say.

“Well, in that case I feel better already,” Will mutters sarcastically. “Hopefully the poor bastard who finds my corpse one of these days is given a gift wrapped bottle of the good stuff to make the memory go away too.”

“You don't have to drink it.” As responses go it's close to pointless and, suddenly feeling as though I have to get away before I risk really putting my foot in it with my award inability to never say the right thing, I start to walk towards the door. “Uh... Sorry. I know you don't want me here so I'll just...”

“Stay.”

There being something – request, demand, or... plea? – in Will's voice that I honestly can't put my finger on, I come to a reluctant stop and shake my head. “You don't want me here,” I repeat. “I only came to make sure you got your share of the...”

“I want you to stay,” he declares, cutting me off again and walking around the table to stand directly behind me.

His proximity and the fact that, not long ago having had a shower, I can smell the fresh, ocean scented soap he uses, making me feel – like I haven't since I was still a teenager – weak at the knees, I slowly shake my head again and whispers, “You don't...”

“I do. I wouldn't have said it otherwise.” Taking matters into his own hands, Will reaches around me and, as goose bumps break out over my skin, gently pries the scotch bottle from my hand. “I prefer not to drink alone,” he continues, returning to the table and, once I've accepted that regardless of the discomfort I may possibly be about to experience that I could no more refuse Will than I could fly, sliding the glass of scotch towards me as I slowly turn around to face him. “Now... A toast.”

Nodding, I pick up the glass and hold it up. “Of course.”

Squaring his shoulders, Will holds the bottle up and, in a shaky voice, intones, “To Linda Morrison, Matthew Jones, Colin Patterson and Peter Smith...”

“Taken before their time and forever remembered,” I finish faintly, as clinking glass and bottle together, we both take a mouthful of scotch.

Grimacing at the flavour, Will mutters, “Smooth,” and, looking far more tired than he did only a moment ago, slowly walks back over to the bed and sinks down on the edge of it. Sighing, he uses the bottle to gesture at the bay window hidden behind heavy brocade drapes and murmurs, “You know... After my shower I wanted to sit on that bench seat in front of the window and just watch the goings on of the world on the street below, but...” He sighs again and blinks sad eyes at me. “But I couldn't because all I could think about was how I'd make the perfect target, how any sniper worth his salt would hardly believe his luck...”

“Will...” Sitting down on the table's only chair, I run my fingers through my hair and echo his sigh. “Intel has it that the cartel have already fled town and there's nothing to indicate...”

“I bet there was nothing to indicate that the safe house had been compromised either, that they weren't actually safe at all,” Will interrupts as he takes another swig of scotch from the bottle and this time manages to get it down without pulling a face. “It could have been...”

“But it wasn't.” I've had the same thoughts myself, of course I have, but they don't, they... never... achieve anything. If we'd arrived at the safe house earlier we could have been there when the killer or killers arrived. If hearing the words 'clean up' hadn't triggered Will's memory about the cartel liking to clean up by blowing everything to shit we could have been, well, blown to shit. If both of Benji's gloves had failed on the Burg Khalifa I could have plummeted to my death and Cobalt could have been successful in his sick desire for a nuclear strike. If I'd read Will's file or asked him why he'd left field work I would have known about the part he played in Croatia and could have explained all the details to him long before I'd done my best to drag him down to my level. Just... If, if, fucking if. It's a game we've all played over time, played for days if not weeks on end, but it never goes anywhere, never makes things any better or offers a helpful, logical explanation as to why you're still alive and someone else isn't.

'Don't think I don't know,” I continue, “but... It wasn't. And going down the could have been or what if path isn't going to achieve anything. Will... It just doesn't help and you know it doesn't as well as I do.”

Holding my gaze, he shrugs and once again brings the bottle to his lips. “It's not just that,” he states with obvious conviction. “Yes, it could have been us today. Hell, it probably should have been given that the timer only had another two minutes to go. But... It's the same everyday, isn't it... Just about not a day goes by that couldn't be our last. What we do... The situations we place ourselves in or are placed in. It... It's just got me thinking...”

Just call it a by-product of my guilty conscience, but reading between the lines of Will's response I come up with a coded statement about how he regrets being in the field and sigh. “Look. I'm sorry, okay? I know it doesn't change anything, but...”

“What are you sorry for?” he queries, swirling the scotch around in the bottle before taking another drink. “It's not like it's your fault.”

No? Could have fooled me. And even if, although God knows why he wouldn't, he's not blaming me for anything it's not like I can't just blame myself for it anyway. “You hadn't planned on returning to field work,” I murmur, taking a sip of scotch and noting with an unwanted degree of surprise that the glass is already more than half empty.

“I hadn't planned on leaving it in the first place either,” Will retorts, raising his bottle in toast. “Don't worry though, I'm fine with it. I'm...” Taking another drink, he laughs drily. “I'm king of my own domain.”

While he may well be... king of his own domain, what he also happens to be is very close to drunk already and I'm not entirely sure continuing this conversation, if that's even what it is, is all that good an idea. It needs to be had, if for no other reason than to get to the bottom of his very much not elaborated on comment in the car after the yard had exploded, but... Now? Fuelled by alcohol and clearly hurting, probably not. “When was the last time you ate anything?” I ask apropos of nothing.

The curiously random nature of my question causes Will to jerk his head up and he gazes across the room at me as though he's not even entirely sure he heard me correctly. “What?”

“The... Uh... The scotch seems to have gone straight to your head,” I clarify, “and I was just wondering when it was you last ate.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Breakfast? Maybe?” Frowning, Will stares at the scotch bottle as though he hopes it will somehow be able to tell him what it is he wants to know. “Ah...” A triumphant expression crossing his face, he takes another drink to celebrate and mutters, “It was on the plane this morning so, yeah, breakfast.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That reconstituted egg... thing?”

He nods. “Yeah. That.”

“You actually ate it?” If the one on his tray looked anything like mine he obviously has a far stronger stomach than I do as the mere sight of the yellowish sludge was enough to make me lose my appetite.

“I... had a bite of it.”

“A whole bite?”

“Well... Half a bite.”

“You still did better than me,” I reply, knowing better than to mistake a moment's easy banter as anything more than a brief reprieve from what, and just call me psychic, I know is still to come. Will may be drunk, and I may be out of my depth, but this just seems to be it for some unknown reason. “Now, perhaps you need to eat some...”

“Not hungry,” he murmurs, making a dismissive gesture with the bottle. “Besides... You're not my keeper.”

“No. I'm not.” Knowing that I'd only be pushing my luck if I got up and tried to take bottle, not, mind you, that there's all that much scotch left in it, from him, I choke back a sigh. “Maybe you've had enough...”

“Just because we didn't die today doesn't mean that we can't die tomorrow,” Will states, talking all over the top of me as he goes back to swirling the scotch around in the bottle. “Or, hey, the day after that... or the day after that. We... Any one of us, we could die any day.”

“You don't have to do this,” I sigh, finishing my drink and, placing the glass back down on the table, gazing vacantly at it. “You can always go back to being an...”

“You can't live forever,” Will mutters, cutting me off again. “It's not the thought of death that's getting to me as I pretty much made my peace with that when I started with the IMF. It's more... not living... that I'm currently having issues with.”

Dead. Not living. Maybe it's the scotch and the fact I haven't had all that much more to eat than Will has today, but I'm really not getting the difference. Stalling for time in order to come up with a suitably bland response, I shrug and cup my hands around the glass.

“I want to know something,” Will states with a scowl when the silence becomes deafening and he realises I've been struck mute, “and I want you to promise to answer truthfully.”

“Uh... Sure.” I nod, so pathetically relieved to be saved from the dead / not living brain teaser that I'll take whatever I can get.

“Promise?”

“Fine. I promise to answer your question with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Okay.” Looking me in the eye, Will takes another drink of scotch and sighs. “Ignoring everything else, and I mean... everything, was it just sex?”

Oh. Shit. I wonder how he'd take it if I tried to steer him back onto the whole dead / not living topic? “Excuse me?” I murmur as, unable to bear the expectant, if not slightly wary, look in Will's eyes, I drop my gaze back to my sadly empty glass.

“Did you fuck me for no other reason than because I was there and you thought, and I'll freely admit here that I never gave you any reason to think anything to the contrary, I couldn't say no to you?” Will queries in a dull, flat voice that I swear goes all the way through me and pierces me to the core. “It's a simple question, Ethan, and, remember, you promised to answer truthfully.”

My mouth suddenly feeling so dry as to render me incapable of speech, I stand up, walk over to Will and abruptly snatch the bottle of scotch out of his hand. Bringing it to my lips, I gulp down a couple of mouthfuls before handing the bottle back to him and, walking over to the bay window, sinking down onto the bench. This, and there are no two ways of looking at it, has to be the point of no return. I can lie as I've never lied before – which, given my profession, would be some sort of achievement all in itself – and tell him that yes, absolutely, he was only ever a convenient fuck and we'd both be deluding ourselves if we ever thought anything different. Or, and this is yet another one of those small facts of life I'm ashamed to admit, I could travel down the much harder path and be, God forbid, honest. Option A would put an an end to things once and for all. Will's opinion of me would reach an all time low and we'd never find ourselves having an uncomfortable conversation like this ever again because, let's face it, he'd probably just stop talking to me at all. Option B, however, while opening me up in a way I'm not even entirely sure I'd be able to handle, would, at the same time and at the very least, offer the clean slate I keep day dreaming about. He'd have a better understanding of everything that's happened between us and, while I'm not fool enough to expect a happily ever after ending I'd still be able to take a degree of... satisfaction... out of having finally chosen honesty over subterfuge.

And, really, if I want to be able to live with myself, it just has to be Option B.

So...

Here goes nothing.

“No...” I whisper at long last as, unable to look at Will, I keep my gaze trained on the spot of stained carpet between my feet. “I know I never showed it... Hell, I never even acknowledged it at the time, but...” How do I even say it? You installed some sort of power trip in me that quickly turned to something, I don't even know what, but... something, and you just... get to me somehow? I suspect he's not expecting much from me, granted, but he still deserves better than that. “You...” I continue faintly, going with the first hopefully reasonable response that pops into my head. “I wanted you, Will. The first time, yeah, was spur of the moment, and you've got to believe me that I would have left if you'd said no, that I always would have backed off if you'd told me to leave you alone, but... after that, the reason I kept coming back was... you. Not because I thought I had you under my thrall or because I wanted to impress my, I don't know, authority of whatever on you. I... I thought, again not that I ever showed it, that when we were together like that, that... we had something. So...” I sigh and risk a fleeting glance at Will as, apparently suffering the same wariness in respect to making eye contact as I am, he stares fixedly at the scotch bottle. “No. I may not have ever given you any reason to think any differently, but you were never just a fuck to me.”

As heartfelt declarations go it's never going to make it into a coffee table book to celebrate St Valentine's Day but, and I'm almost proud of this, at least it's a garbled attempt at the truth.

“Good,” Will murmurs as he takes a drink of scotch and, seemingly satisfied with my response, nods to himself. “I'm not a masochist and, regardless of appearances perhaps being deceiving, nor am I a doormat, but... Damn it, Ethan! I hardly know why, but I've missed you and I've had enough of this... strangeness... between us, and...” Pausing, he gulps down another mouthful of scotch, and slowly turns his head to face me, his expression as unreadable as it was when I walked into the room. “You'll probably think I'm mad for saying this, but I'd rather die having whatever it was we had than this... this feeling of missed opportunities or just, hell, as though something, and I don't even know what, is missing. It's just doing my fucking head in and today's senseless display of how fragile our lives are just really brought it home to me that I can't go on like this. So... There.” He shrugs wearily. “I've said it, and now you can make what you will of it.”

Not believing for a second that he means it – although, why he'd bother saying it if it wasn't the truth escapes me as well – I shake my head. “Will...”

“Don't... 'Will'... me,” he interjects, narrowing his eyes and giving me a warning look to not to second guess him or try to put words into his mouth. “You either feel the same way or you don't. Either way, I can take it. If we're not on the same page then just say the word and I'll read on.”

“I ruined you life,” I state bluntly. It's not that I want to sabotage the moment or ruin my chances of actually, albeit through no particular effort on my part, getting what it is I'd really quite like, more that, really, we both have to be as clear on everything as we possibly can.

“You re-routed it,” Will retorts with a shrug, “not ruined it.”

“I still messed with it.” Lifting my head, I meet his gaze and, in a voice barely above a whisper, reluctantly add, “Messed with you...”

“But I'm still here,” he replies, staring at me intently, “and, what's more, I'm here by choice. I don't regret returning to field work and while, yeah, our... relationship... professional and... uh... otherwise, may not exactly be built around honesty, I don't want to be anywhere else or, while I'm at it, work with anyone else. You get under my skin, Ethan, I admit it. But, hey, who knows. Maybe it's fate or kismet or some other cosmic rubbish like that. Maybe... Hell. Maybe we're just stuck with each other as punishment for crimes committed in another life, I don't know. What I do know however is that I really can't go on like this. I... I just can't.” 

“Will...” Unable to take the heat and, dare I say it, glint of hope in his eyes, I lean back and sigh. I'm on uncharted waters now, perhaps more so than I've ever been in my life because, while not a life or death situation or one that involves the weight of the world as we know it pressing heavily on my shoulders, it's about... me, and both what I want and what I'm prepared to do to achieve it. Thinking it, living in a fantasy land where I just click my fingers and everything is just peachy between us and we make the most perfectly normal couple, is one thing, but having it in me to break a habit of what is quite literally a lifetime... Shit. It's actually a scary proposition. Having, and there really are no two ways of looking at it, fucked Will over once, perhaps the kindest thing I could do for him would be to – lie through my teeth – just brush him off. It would, I'm sure, be the safest choice for both of us.

Only...

I look at him, and... it's as though all my skills, expertise and spectacular acting abilities have just ceased to exist. I can't... switch off, or treat him like – someone I'm being paid to toy with – a target. I can't even take my eyes off him, and nor do I want to. I want...

“It's not hard,” Will murmurs. “Do you want me or not?”

“I...” Fuck it. Better late than never, carpe diem and all that. If this is my only chance, and I still don't know what I've done to deserve it, I have to grab it with both hands and just go with it. Nodding, I offer Will a sad smile. “Of course I want you. I've got no right, and I don't think I'll ever be able to make up for the way I've treated you, but...”

“No buts,” Will interrupts as, the all-but-empty bottle slipping from his fingers, he stands up and, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet, walks over towards the window “I want you, you want me, so...” Coming to a stop in front of me, he reaches for his belt and starts to fumble over undoing the buckle. “ Let's do it.”

Standing up, I slowly shake my head and gently place my hands on Will's shoulders. There's seizing the day and then there's jumping in feet first and just moving too damn fast. Sex is something we know we're good at, and it would be easy, too easy, to slip immediately back into the pattern of... fucking our problems away, but not this time. If we're going to try this again, we're going to do it, if not right, then at the very least... better. Which means I'm going to have to do something I never thought I'd ever have to do, and that's say no to a freely given offer of sex.

“I can't say it's not an incredibly appealing offer,” I murmur, “but... I just really don't think now is the right time.”

“No?” Clearly embarrassed by my... dismissal, Will squirms free and, avoiding my gaze, takes a step back. “But...”

Smiling, I reach out and cup Will's cheek in the palm of my hand. “While there's probably one hundred and one reasons for why doing this right now isn't a good idea, you're drunk and...”

“So?” Leaning into my touch, Will pouts and glances down in the general direction of his crotch. “I'm sure I could still...”

“Wanting to start on the right foot and to prove there's always a first time for everything,” I interrupt, trying not to chuckle at either how little alcohol it appears to take to lower Will's inhibitions or how very focussed he becomes when he's drunk, “I don't want to take advantage of you.”

Shrugging, he reaches again for his belt and, frowning at the apparent complexity of the buckle, sways on his feet. “Advantage away,” he mutters. “I'm here. You're here. Given that not so long ago that's all it used to take, I don't know what else you're waiting for.”

“What I'm waiting for is for you to feel more like yourself and for me to be more convinced that you really know what it is you're doing and aren't just going to regret it all in the morning,” I respond, closing my hands around Will's and causing him to give up his going nowhere fast assault on his belt. “I want you, Will, and I can hardly believe you might possibly feel the same way about me despite everything I've put you through, but I want to do things right this time and if that means not rushing into anything then... so be it.”

“But...”

“No buts, remember?” Leaning forward, I plant a soft kiss on his forehead and smile. “If you really meant everything you said you'll know that there's no need to rush.”

Sighing, Will flashes a faint smile at me as, pulling his hands away from mine, he walks over to the bed and once again sinks down on the edge of it. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I may be drunk and, yeah, okay, I may have needed the scotch to raise the courage to say it, but... I've said it now and you can either believe it or not. I want you, Ethan, but you're right. If we're going to try this again we need to try it... properly...” Trailing off, he looks over at me and pats the mattress. “Stay the night anyway?”

“Of course.” Kicking off my shoes, I walk over to the bed and am about to lower myself onto the mattress when Will stops me by jumping to his feet and grabbing my arm. “Other side,” he states, running his fingers lightly along the white bandage covering the shrapnel wound from the transport yard explosion on my right arm. “Not being an asshole, I don't want to roll onto you and accidentally hurt you.”

Touched that he'd even take my injury into consideration, I do as requested and shift around to the other side of the bed. “Of the two of us, I doubt you'd ever be at risk of being referred to as an asshole,” I state drily, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and giving Will a wry look. “Rest assured I have that one well and truly covered.”

“You're not an asshole, Ethan, you only think you are thanks to years, if not decades, of perfecting your closed-off act,” Will replies, watching as I swing my legs up onto the bed and settle myself against the mound of pillows before crawling onto the mattress and kneeling next to me. “And that's what it is too, a carefully honed act that you've come to accept as real and just don't know how to break free from.”

“I hope you're not too saddened when your admittedly generous thought process is proven incorrect,” I murmur weakly as, giving me a disappointed look, Will plants a quick kiss on on my cheek. “I mean, I'll try and...”

“And, as with everything you do when you put your mind to it, you'll succeed,” Will finishes as, stifling a yawn, he lies down and stretches out alongside me. “It's hard to know you, Ethan, when you don't even know yourself, but... I'm prepared to look for the... true you... even if you're not. Maybe I'm even more deluded than you could possibly think, but I have faith and I'm prepared to go on the ride with you.”

Even more touched by Will's clearly heartfelt statement than I was by the fact of him not wanting to sleep on my right in case he hurt my arm, I slide a little further down the mattress and, in slightly stunned silence, let him settle himself comfortably around me. There's still a long way to go, a long way without the benefit of alcohol to loosen our tongues and smooth the way, but with such a promising start already under our belts, I honestly feel, along with confused and slightly disbelieving, both blessed and hopeful.

“Thank you,” I whisper as, yawning again, Will closes his eyes. “Just... Thank you.”

~*~

Waking from a deep, dreamless sleep, I know I'm alone on the bed even without opening my eyes and the sense of disappointment this installs in me is so great that I'm instantly prepared to put all recent events down to my imagination. Last night never happened, Will never threw me a lifeline and, fuck it, while I'm entrenched in feeling sorry for myself, I may as well just lie here until either starvation or dehydration does me in and I can stop being an annoyance to everyone I've ever cared about once and for all.

The sound of the door quietly opening somehow managing to penetrate through my woe-is-me pity party, I open my eyes and struggle into a vaguely upright position as, looking – like I feel – a little grey, Will walks into the room. “I know what you're thinking, and I'm here to tell you that you're wrong “ he comments, scowling at the scotch bottle as he picks it up and places it on the table. “ My reasons for disappearing on you were solely physical, not mental.”

“Oh.” Schooling my face into what I hope passes for a mask of indifference, as, let's face it, babbling 'thank God' or barrelling over to hug Will would be both out of character and most likely alarming, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and stand up. “I wasn't thinking any...”

“Yeah. Right,” Will states, cutting me off and, all too briefly, smiling fondly. “It pains me to admit this, but I know how your mind operates. Now, without going into all the gory detail, if it helps put your mind at ease, let me tell you that while the expensive stuff might taste better going down, it tastes exactly the same as the cheap stuff coming back up again.”

Grimacing, I hold my arms out in mock surrender and shake my head. “Too much information,” I mutter, laughing “At the risk of appearing smug though, I warned you last night that you needed to have eaten something before embarking on your crusade to see the bottom of the bottle.”

“And maybe next time I'll actually listen to you,” Will replies, wandering over to the bed and seating himself on the foot of it. “No promises though.” Planting his elbows on his knees, he holds his head in his hands and groans. “Oh God, I don't know what's worse, my head or my stomach.”

“I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but I think I'm going to have to insist that you eat something,” I respond, stepping into my shoes and bending down to tighten the laces. “You may not thank me for it immediately, but in the long run I'm sure it will be for the best.”

“Don't want food,” Will mumbles without lifting his head. “Just paracetamol. Or, failing that, a bullet to put me out of my misery would do.”

“As a bullet would be far too permanent, I'll see what I can rustle up in terms of painkillers.” Pausing by Will, I gently ruffle his hair and score myself a not exactly ominous looking glower for my trouble. “Cheer up. In a couple of hours this will all just be a horrible memory.”

“Assuming I live that long, that is.” Dropping his hands away from his head, Will straightens up and, reaching out, grabs my wrist. “Ethan... Don't think you have to go out of your way to... look after me... because you feel as though you have to make things up to me or whatever, because, seriously, you don't.”

Turning to face him, I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “What if it's just because I want to?” I offer, shrugging. “Besides, I hardly think scrounging up some paracetamol and breakfast even begins to come close to cleaning my slate.”

“You don't have a slate to clean,” Will retorts, pulling his hand away in order to return to his head-in-hands position, “and things are going to get very tired very quickly if you constantly think you've got to pander to me.”

“What about this then...” Not wanting to get stuck on this topic any more than Will obviously does, I decide to combine logic with a small spot of humour and just hope for the best. “My goal of feeding and drugging you is solely for the good of the team because if you're wandering around both looking and feeling like death warmed up you're of no use to anyone and could put any one of us at risk... How does that work for you?”

“Pretty good, actually,” he replies, his expression one of relief as he glances up at me and gestures towards the door. “I'm not kidding though when I say I'll be happy with just the painkillers.”

“You'll have whatever I'm able to come up with and be grateful for it,” I reply as I begin to walk towards the door. “Just wait here and I'll be back shortly.”

“Where else am I going to go?”

Will's response causing me to stop in my tracks, I turn to look at him as, his memory clearly taking him to the same – dark and wet – place mine did, he lifts his head and smiles at me. “You know,” he murmurs, “if we had any brains we would have accepted back in Moscow that we're just stuck with each other.”

Mirroring his smile, I nod and open the door. “Give us time, we'll get there eventually,” I reply over my shoulder as, stepping out of the room, a vibrating sensation in my back pocket tells me that my phone's just received a text message. Closing the door behind me, I grab my phone and open up the message. Reading it, my smile broadens and I only just resist the urge to punch the air in triumphant satisfaction. My attack of the miseries upon waking up alone already a thing of the past, today is giving every indication of shaping up pretty well and, as I walk into the living room and find Benji and Jane still asleep on the sofa, I'm feeling better than I have for a very long time.

Not wanting to wake the others, I sneak past the sofa and have nearly reached the front door when Jane silently materialises behind me and places her hand flat on the door. “Where do you think you're going?” she queries matter-of-factly. “I thought we were on lock down while the cartel...”

“The cartel's history,” I interrupt, holding up my phone and accessing the 'Mission Accomplished' message so that she can see it for herself. “Turner's team tracked them to Slovakia and successfully neutralised them.”

“Neutralised as in... took into custody, or... took out?” Jane mutters, snatching the phone out of my hand so she can read the specifics of the message for herself. “Took out,” she confirms with a grim smile as she shoves the phone back at me. “Good. It's what the bastards deserved.”

“The orders were for custody, but they must have fought back,” I reply with a shrug as I return the phone to my pocket and reach for the door handle. “And needless to say I'm no more upset by that outcome than you are. Now, if you'll excuse me, my current mission is locating breakfast which, if you'll let me go, I might even bring back for you and Benji as well.”

“Then go.” Stepping back from the door, Jane yawns and stretches. “And hurry back. I'm starving.”

“I'll do my best.” Pretending to salute Jane, I leave the apartment, walk down the five flights of stairs and out onto the street. A quick glance at my watch confirms that it's just gone seven in the morning and an equally as quick glance along the street tells me that the safe house isn't situated in a bustling café district and that the somewhat dingy looking coffee shop on the corner is probably going to be as good as it gets.

Jamming my hands in my pockets, I stroll up to the coffee shop and fifteen minutes later return to the apartment with a tray laden down with four ceramic cups of steaming coffee and two plates overflowing with trdelnik, a traditional cylindrical pastry dusted with cinnamon, sugar and nuts. The concept of take-away not yet having taken off in this particular part of Prague, the shop owner, a lovely woman wearing a floral apron that clashed gloriously with her floral dress, had wanted me to stay and eat at one of their ancient looking wooden tables, but the universal language of offering far too much cash to get my way worked its usual magic and in the end she was only too happy to fill a tray for me and wave me on my way.

Carefully balancing the tray on my arm, I unlock the door and make a beeline for Jane and Benji as, obviously feeling no great rush to get moving and embrace the day, they continue to sit, chatting on the sofa. “Breakfast is served,” I announce, placing the tray on the edge of coffee table and quickly unloading two of the cups of coffee and one of the plates of trdelnik. Noticing a bottle of paracetamol on the table, I place it on the tray and, grinning at my good fortune, begin to walk off.

“Good heavens,” Benji murmurs, poking Jane with his finger and tilting his head in my direction. “Was that a smile I just saw?”

“Maybe he got lucky last night?” Jane offers, laughing.

Coming to a stop, I glance over my shoulder and roll my eyes. “I heard that.”

“Mmm... And as we would have too,” Jane retorts, laughing even harder as, her amusement being contagious, Benji's attempts to remain silent fail dismally and he starts to choke on his mouthful of trdelnik, “I don't know what I was thinking even mentioning it.”

“Assuming you both don't kill yourselves with your comedy routine, you'll keep,” I mutter as, chuckling under my breath, I leave them to it and, opening the door, walk into the bedroom. “Room service,” I call out, placing the tray on the table and chucking the paracetamol bottle at Will who, albeit fresh from a shower and wearing different clothes, is still sitting looking... poorly... on the foot of the bed.

Catching the paracetamol, he nods his thanks and, popping the lid, quickly swallows two pills with a swig of water from the bottle he'd been holding between his knees. “I'm really hoping these are of the quick acting variety,” he murmurs, leaving the pills on the bed but carrying his water with him as he stands up and comes over to inspect the contents of my tray. Picking up a cup of coffee, he wrinkles his nose. “Is this coffee or... gravy?”

“When you're down, you're really down, aren't you?” I reply facetiously, patting his shoulder as I walk over to the bay window and pull back the drapes. “I thought we'd eat over here,” I add, walking back past Will as he shoots me a look of equal parts curiosity and disbelief in order to switch the overhead light off. “What? You mentioned last night that you'd wanted to sit on the bench seat, so... Go and sit down and I'll bring over breakfast. Oh, and, yes... It's coffee. Very, very strong coffee, but coffee nonetheless.”

“But...” Frowning, Will glances at the window, then at me, and then back to the window. “The cartel. Aren't we meant to be lying low while...”

“We don't have to worry about those bastards anymore.” Smiling, I pick the tray up and, gently prodding it at Will's waist, use it to propel him towards the window. “Another team took them out in Slovakia overnight. It won't bring the others back, I know, but at least they're no longer our problem.”

“One problem down, how many still left out there?” Will retorts dully before shrugging, giving a brief shake of his head and glancing over his shoulder at me. “Sorry. Believe it or not, I'm not actually as morose as I appear to be giving every impression of being. I'm glad the cartel is history and...” Smiling, he sinks down on the bench seat and looks out through the window. “I'm glad you're here, Ethan, and that we're going to try to... do this.”

Forcefully ignoring my inner-pessimist and how a little voice in my head whispers, 'uh-huh, try... being the word here', I sit down and place the tray between us. “Let's eat, yeah?”

Giving me a look that says 'I'm on to you and can bide my time as well as you can' better than words ever could, Will shrugs his acceptance and bravely takes a sip of coffee. “Oh!” he exclaims, his eyes widening as the caffeine hit courses through his system. “I know you said it was strong, but... Hell. I hope you didn't give a cup of it to Benji because, if you did, he's going to spend the rest of the day bouncing off the walls.”

“Jane knows how to control Benji when he's on a caffeine high,” I reply, grinning as, handing him a trdelnik, I rest my back against the window and pick one up for myself. “We, however, may wish to give them both their... space... for a while while he works through the worst of it.”

“Oh, trust me, I'm ahead of you on that one.” Will takes a cautious nibble of his pastry and, apparently finding it pleasant enough, follows my lead by settling himself back against the window. “Hey. These aren't bad. Maybe we should market them as hangover food back in the States.”

“Looking for a career change?”

“No. Just making small talk while we eat.”

“Oh. 'Kay.”

“As I think I told you last night, I'm perfectly fine where I am.”

“You did, and I have to say I'm both pleased and relieved to hear it.”

“Good. Now you just need to believe it and I'll be confident we're on the same page.”

Looking over at Will, I find him looking back at me intently and, wanting to repay the faith he appears to have in me, I meet his gaze and dredge up a weak smile. “I'm trying to believe it,” I murmur. “Just... Give me time, yeah, and I'm sure I'll get there eventually.”

“With help, which I'm freely offering, by the way, of course you'll get there,” Will replies, keeping his gaze locked on mine as he calmly takes a mouthful of coffee. “In case you haven't gathered yet, I'm about as determine and stubborn as they come, so... You may well have met your match.”

“I'm counting on it, actually,” I respond, my answer for once coming to me both quickly and instinctively. “Will...”

“Just eat your breakfast,” he interjects. “Given that we've already agreed that we're avoiding Benji for a while, I'm not going anywhere and we can talk when we've finished.”

“Okay.” Taking a sip of coffee, I confirm for myself that, yes, strong doesn't even begin to describe its taste – or, alternatively, as my grandmother used to say, strong enough to put hairs on your chest – and for the next ten or so minutes we eat in companionable silence. This, and what it says about the state of my life isn't even something I want to contemplate, is a pleasant, out of the ordinary occurrence all in itself and it helps steady my nerves to a bearable level. Pinching myself being too obvious – this really is actually real? – not to mention lame, I keep sneaking glances at Will and on at least three occasions catch him doing the same to me. This too helps settle the unfamiliar feeling of butterflies fluttering about in the pit of my stomach and by the time we've finished eating I'm as close to being ready for whatever it is that's about to happen as I suspect I'll ever be.

Placing his empty cup on the bench seat between us, Will waits until I've indicated my readiness by toasting him with my still half full cup of coffee before quietly stating, “I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but I'm glad that your wife is still alive. When all is said and done all of this mess revolves around a woman's life and, regardless of everything else that may have taken place, I'm just pleased that she's still alive.”

“Ex,” I correct. It being one of those moments in my life that I'd rather just erase from my memory than dwell on, my recollection of what was said when I found Will in my kitchen after he'd returned from Bangkok is hazy at best and I know this is my opportunity to make things as clear as I possibly can. “She's my ex-wife, but... Thank you. It doesn't change what happened and, yeah, it doesn't need to be said that we probably could have gone about it a better way, but the sole purpose of the Croatia... mission... was to free Julie as cleanly and as thoroughly as possible.” Sighing, I look out the window and keep my gaze trained on a young couple as, hand in hand, they walk along the street. “I loved her, and we were certainly in love at the beginning, but... We could never be together. I don't know what... arrogance... possessed me to think it could ever work. Our lives had nothing in common and, again it was arrogance on my part to think she'd be perfectly okay with learning the truth about what I do or... or that I could protect her from it. We may not be military, but we're still... apart... from the masses given what we do and she was a civilian, someone who I never should have invited into my life.” The couple having reached the corner, they disappear from my line of sight and, shrugging, I glance across at Will. “She wanted out and, better late than never, I wanted to do what I could to protect her and that meant erasing my existence from her life.”

“So you arranged to fake her death,” Will murmurs as, leaning forward, he places his hand on my knee and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze. “You're nothing if not thorough, I'll give you that.”

“Faked her death. Arranged for an audience to witness and confirm it, but, uh, you knew that part already,” I continue with a sheepish smile. “Then gave her a new identity and set her up with a brand new life in Glasgow. In the end we were both just relieved that it was finally over. Julie felt safe again and I felt...” To be honest, I don't, not even to this day, know how I felt. Satisfaction that the plan had worked out exactly how I had wanted it to? Annoyance that I'd foolishly got myself into such a situation, along with endangering the life of another, in the first place? A sense of failure that I hadn't been able to make it work? Regret that I'd chosen IMF over... having a life?

Returning his hand to my knee after having moved his empty cup from between us, Will shifts closer and lightly rests his leg against mine. “Empty?” he offers softly. “Perhaps what you felt was empty...”

“I was going to simply go with relief, actually,” I respond, choosing to gloss over whatever emotion it was that I may have been feeling at the time in favour of putting the topic aside and just wanting to move on. “It was never going to work, we'd fallen out of love, and Julie wanted both out and her freedom returned to her, so...” I shrug and, for no other reason than I want to, place my hand over Will's. “Given that it was something I never should have got involved in, it was just in everyone's best interests to finish it.”

“You're too harsh on yourself, Ethan,” Will murmurs, giving me a stern, disapproving look. 

“And your watermark for decent behaviour is set too low,” I retort, lifting my hand from his and running my fingers through my hair. I don't even really know why I feel compelled to constantly argue – by way of wanting to present my worst side as clearly as possibly – with Will, but it's like I just can't help myself, as though my mouth is actively working against me. “Let's face it. I fucked up. I tried to be something I'm not and people got hurt.”

“And, again I say you're being far too harsh on yourself,” Will states, bumping his leg against mine. “I may not know what you were like before IMF got their claws into you, but the agency have turned you into a chameleon. You adapt to whatever life throws at you, and you're so good at it now that it's quite literally instinctual. What this also means though is that you're so geared for survival that you hardly know yourself any better than your closest, and even those you keep at arms' length, friends and don't actually know what you want for yourself anymore. You... You just have to take a long hard look at yourself and work out what you really want and what you're prepared to do to achieve it.”

Cocking my head to one side, I look at Will and – have to fight the sudden desire to kneel before him and rest my head on his lap by way of demonstrating how grateful I am for his calm, unflappable manner – smile. “Don't tell me, let me guess... Growing up, you really wanted to be a psychologist...”

“Nope.”

“No?”

“No. Analyst, remember? I just like to over-think everything before trying to come up with a way to achieve the best, most suitable outcome.”

“Analyst.” I nod. “Uh-huh. Silly me.”

“Mmm... If you'd ever bothered to read my file you would have seen that I was an analyst before being roped into field work, so...” Resting his hand warmly on my thigh, he offers me a half smirk and gives a lopsided shrug. “I think, therefore I am. I just think it's fair you know what you're getting yourself in for, that's all.”

“And you honestly think I'm... worth the effort?”

“I do, yes.”

“You've crunched the numbers?”

“I've not fully worked through the probability for success, no. I have however gone through the pros and cons more often than I wish to admit and...” Pausing, he squeezes his hand around my thigh and smiles. “What can I say other than the pros wins.”

“They... do?” I have no idea how, but if it's what he's decided, who am I to argue against his logic?

“It might be a closely contested race, but, yeah, they do. I wouldn't be sitting here trying to convince you that, strange as I'm fairly certain it seems to you, I really do want... us... to have a second chance. It... It mightn't work but, when it all boils down to it, we'll never know if we don't try.” Sighing, he clasps his hands in his lap and rests his head back against the window. “The ball's in your court, Ethan. You can continue trying to second guess me or doing your best to scare me off with your pessimistic view of yourself, or... you can accept what I'm offering you, what I really do want to make a go of, and just... take a chance on having... something... with me.”

Replicating Will's earlier move, I bump my leg against his and murmur, “Your mission, should you choose to accept it...”

“Now you're getting it,” he replies, straightening up and, biting down lightly on his bottom lip, fixing me with a hopeful look. “There's nothing to say it'll work, but I...”

“I want to give it a go,” I finish, noticing for the first time that Will has a dusting of cinnamon covering the tip of his nose and instantly reaching out to gently brush it off. “I do, I really do. The thought of fucking up, of hurting you again, scares me more than anything IMF will ever be able to throw at me ever could, but...” Standing up, I hold my hand out to Will and wait for him to take it. Once his hand's in mine I pull him to his feet and, still not wanting to appear too forward, drape my arms over his shoulders. “I want you, William Brandt. It's going to take me a while to believe I have any right to, and God knows I'm still not entirely sure this is really in your best interests, but... If you really do want to give this a ago, then, yes... I accept the mission on one condition.”

“And what would that be?” Will queries, taking a step closer and sliding his arms loosely around my waist.

“Actually, make that a couple of conditions.”

“A couple now?”

“Mmm...” I meet Will's very blue eyed gaze. “No more lies.”

“Done.”

“And... If we're going to do this we're going to do it properly and that means starting, to the best of our abilities, at the beginning,” I declare, stroking Will's smooth cheek. “We've already done the meaningless sex and the messy breakup, so now we have to go through the... getting to know each other stage and the... just trying our best stage. I... I just think it's something we need to do.”

“Done,” Will repeats as, the most beautiful smile lighting up his face, he leans into my touch. “We take things slow, actually talk, truthfully and I'd quite like frequently, and just do our very best to get to really know each other... Does that sound about right?”

I nod. “Oddly petrifying but, yes, it sounds right to me.” And it does, too. If we take things slowly and I actually work on living up to Will's expectations of me – as opposed to trying to sabotage them – while going out of my way to treat him with the care and respect he deserves, there's nothing to say we won't be able to make an actual go of things. While I may not have ever found the courage to make my feelings known if left to my own devices, because Will effectively took charge and laid his cards on the table first, I know how he feels and that, yes, somehow we really are both on the same page. It's a confused page, one that it's nothing short of a miracle we ever landed on at the same point in time, and it definitely one that leads into the unknown, but at least we're on it together.

“So... This getting to you better lark,” I murmur, pulling Will closer and wrapping my arms tightly around him, “how do you propose we start?”

~ end ~


End file.
